Crushing the Ice
by TheBlackSister
Summary: Many phans are probably aware there is a sequel coming up pretty soon. I was intrigued by the idea of Love Never Dies, and thought I'd try and predict how the plot might unfold. All the rights belong to the incomparable Andrew Lloyd Webber. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

As many phans are probably aware, there is a sequel coming up pretty soon. I was intrigued by the premise of _Love Never Dies_, and thought I'd try and predict how the plot might unfold. All the rights belong to the incomparable Andrew Lloyd Webber and associates, I'm just borrowing their toys. Please leave feedback!

1

Soft piano music resounded through the splendid drawing room. The theme seemed to blend in with the sunlight that streamed through the delicate lace of the window treatments. Its beams reflected from the sky blue fabric that covered the walls and the furniture of the room.

The performer could not be easily seen. An artfully placed screen completely concealed the stool and its occupant, leaving only the superb grand piano to be admired. It was a present, given to her on her first birthday as a married woman.

The tune from _Nozze_[1] stopped abruptly. The performer rose, drew her shawl tighter to her thin shoulders. She walked slowly towards one of the four large windows and peered outside.

It was still fairly early, but the street below was already busy. Carriages and the odd motorcar passed by the grand mansion. Pedestrians, not unlike the swarms of bees she saw in the country, hurried to their destinations, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.

Christine, Countess de Chaigny, sighed and left the spot by the window she frequented lately. She went over to the sofa and lowered herself on the very edge. She wished she had a direction to run in. In the last years, she had none. No proper occupations had presented itself. Even the upbringing of her son was the province of M. Fouchert, a middle-aged tutor. Oh, she could still see him, when the boy did not have lessons, or when her husband did not whisk her away to some function or other. That left very little time.

Was she unhappy? Christine didn't care to know. Whatever her feelings were, she must not set them free. Her obligations were to support Raoul in his pursuits, and to be there for their son. She could not succumb to the desires that awoke in her with fresh force. She could not…

_Oh, to sing again!_

It was unbelievable how much she missed it – the nervous tingle of excitement, just before going onstage. The soft and yet harsh light that surrounded her. And the semi-mystical union of her voice and the orchestra, fused into one. And…

She must admit it, at least to herself.

And the single red rose, tied with a black ribbon that she used to find in her room afterwards.

The confusing emotions threatened to overpower her completely. She rose again and paced the room, restless. Today was the day to open one's eyes and see that which had been obvious: she had made a terrible choice. She and her husband were trapped in a loveless union (at least, as far as she was concerned), and somewhere there dwelled another soul that suffered just as much, faced with eternal solitude. Christine shuddered at the thought what these ten years could have done to him. What have they done to her?

She walked towards an enormous mirror over the fireplace. A handsome woman stared at her – delicately pale skin, dark eyes framed by thick lashes, hair that flowed down past her shoulders. She had barely changed – naturally, the Countess must always look her best, even if she is wearing no more than a dressing gown. Was that it? Was it that attitude of doing what was expected of her that dragged her into this life? Possibly. Christine did not know. All she knew was that any more of this terror would drive her mad.

***

Two hours later, Raoul joined her at the breakfast table. He kissed her hand, as always.

"You know, dear, I think a change of scenery is in order," he said, sipping coffee. "I think Paris tires you. How about Italy?"

Christine nodded thoughtfully. She had been considering whether her condition could be soothed by a bit of travelling. However, she was tired of Europe. Her thoughts had been full of _him_ – perhaps, if he were an ocean away…

"What if we were to go to America? We neither of us had been there yet," she said in a measured voice.

He did not mind.

***

Raoul would often wonder what was on Christine's mind. Every year, some more distance would grow between them. She seemed lost in thought, as though uncertain of where she was and why. Oh, to be sure, she made an exemplary wife and mother, but to him she seemed unhappy. He often wondered whether he was ever able to understand her character. His love was still there, but it had not matured and was unstable, like a flickering candle. Even watching the sea beyond the limits of the boat that was carrying them to the New World, Christine was an enigma. Every once in a while, a spark of emotion would cross her face. Sometimes, Raoul thought he knew the subject of her reverie, and it was a relief to know that _he_ was left behind, somewhere in Europe._ If, indeed he was still living_.

Would she never forget _him_?

***

A young woman nearly fell on the chair next to Christine.

"Forgive me, miss," she said, trying to catch her breath. "This was the closest chair, and I sorely needed one. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Christine smiled. The woman looked well: rosy cheeks, blonde hair, and lovely hazel eyes. She was dressed well too; a white walking suit with navy blue buttons denoted a certain level of wealth. Her face was smiling and open, attractive.

"My name is Daisy Brooke, by the way."

"Christine de Chaigny."

"Really? How interesting! An old friend of my mother's was supposed to introduce me to you while I was in Paris – Madame Durant, you know."

"Ah, yes, of course."

"But she fell ill on the day of the ball at the Foreign Office, and we did not go."

"As a matter of fact, I wasn't there, either. My son was unwell."

"How strange that we should meet here! Are you travelling to New York?"

"Yes."

Daisy looked pleased.

"Good. My parents live there, you know. New York has been our home for three generations. A nice town, one can enjoy oneself. I found Europe a little too tight-laced to my taste. Here – in America, that is – everyone is entitled to please himself and not the others. It does not always work like that, but more than in Europe."

Christine nodded in agreement.

The two women spent the rest of the afternoon talking. Christine found Daisy an engaging person – she had never before enjoyed a conversation with a woman of her social circle so much. Daisy was lively and sharp, and possessed a vast amount of expertise on the history of New York and the many oddities of its society. All in all, Christine found, she enjoyed the afternoon immensely.

[1] Le Nozze di Figaro – an opera by Mozart, which premiered on May 1st, 1789


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two! Thank you, ye that review. Please remember to do so again!

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The rest of the sea voyage was uneventful. Daisy and Christine grew closer daily – the former had never before considered the true meaning of "opposites attract." Raoul found a group of men whose views of the world suited him; and so, both were content.

The last day of the journey dawned, crisp and bright. Christine sat out on the deck, sipping lemonade. The Count stood next to her, talking quietly to a gentleman she remembered as Lord Conyngham. Every once in a while, she caught a word or two – it was all politics. Christine turned her head, only to see Daisy in an impeccable grey suit with a small train. Daisy nodded to the two men and seated herself on Christine's bench.

"And so, my dear, are you ready to savor the delights of this New World?" she enquired with great gaiety.

"I suppose so," her companion answered. "I think I am ready to feel some stationary soil under my feet."

"Ah, yes," Daisy assented, fanning herself with her hand. "The boat grows to be tiresome. Do you know, I have thought of what to show you all morning. You don't mind if I were to play the tour guide, do you?

"Of course not," Christine smiled contentedly. "I rather hoped you might. It would be fascinating."

"It is settled, then. My dear Count," Daisy turned to Raoul, "you may be assured that your wife shall be occupied during your stay here."

"Anything that amuses you, my dear," Raoul gave a little bow. Christine nodded.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Daisy was again addressing Christine.

"Does a suite at Waldorf Astoria satisfy your taste?"

"Quite."

***

The suite looked much as their house in Paris. Christine sat in the armchair by the corner window of her bedroom. Traffic was much heavier here, she thought peering out of the window. Finally, the last baggage carrier left the room, and Christine rang for her maid. Lotte helped her unpack until it was time to change for dinner. At five thirty, the woman entered the drawing room of the hotel, wearing a sapphire blue evening gown. Loose strands of pearls descended almost to her knees, a thick knot of the necklace resting on her chest. Raoul, already in his dinner jacket, rose from a sofa to meet her in the middle of the room and kissed her gloved hand.

"You look magnificent, my dear," he said.

"I am glad to hear it," she said evenly. Her face was the epitome of cool tranquility.

They entered the dining hall just as most of the inhabitants were seating themselves. The couple seated themselves with a small family from England. Mr. and Mrs. Derwitt had arrived the day before; their ten-year old daughter Margaret took to Christine immediately, while her father engaged himself in a conversation with Raoul.

"I saw elephants today, Madame!" she exclaimed. "And ventriloquists! And an enormous snake! And a Monsieur told me I had pretty eyes…"

Her mother watched the girl indulgently.

"You see, Madame, we went to see Coney Island today, and she is excited because of that. It is the oddest place."

Christine rather enjoyed the brief dinner talk with the lady and the girl. Their French was well enunciated, and they were both very pleasant.

"You say you enjoy music, Madame," Mrs. Derwitt said, getting up. "You simply must go to the Music House there on the Island. I have never heard anything quite like it."

"What was that?" Raoul asked, leading her back to their room.

"Mrs. Derwitt was recommending me the musical establishment of Coney Island," Christine replied, lost in thought. She was more touched by the claims of little Margaret. For her part, she doubted that any music would touch her. However, she supposed, it could be amusing.

With these thoughts, she drifted off to sleep.

***

Over the next two weeks, Christine explored New York City, accompanied by Daisy or the Derwitts. Once or twice, she even ventured alone. She was fascinated by the streets, the buildings, and the pedestrians. The city breathed with some energy she had never encountered before. One day, after a lengthy walk, she was having lunch in a small corner café, Daisy sitting opposite her. They were discussing the differences between the opera houses in various European cities; Christine insisted that the one in Vienna was overrated due to its splendor, and that it was too large for proper acoustics. Daisy seemed satisfied with her expertise. Suddenly, Daisy's eyes lit up.

"Remember you told me about that family you dined with that first evening? And they told you about Coney Island? Well, there's a small opera house there! More of a music hall, perhaps, but I have heard the most extraordinary recommendations. Why don't we go? Tonight, perhaps?"

Christine had no objections.

***

As soon as she reached the suite thirty minutes later, she knew something had changed. Raoul's trunks stood in the middle of the drawing room, and his manservant was busy packing the last one. Before she could get an idea of what was happening, the Count himself emerged from his bedroom, looking distinctly displeased.

"Make sure my dinner clothes are easily accessible, Bernard," he said, before turning himself to face his wife. "Ah, Christine, my dear, how relieved I am to see you! A telegram has arrived, I am urgently requested to be in Paris. The business should take a few weeks. I've thought it all over," he continued, seeing her attempts to speak. "Why don't you stay here for this month, and then return home? I am sure you'll have a splendid time with Mademoiselle Brooke and her society."

Christine could only nod.

Thirty minutes and a peck on the cheek later, the door closed behind them. Christine was sitting in the drawing room, embroidering. She contemplated the incident. How many times has something like that happened – Raoul running on some errand that had something to do with his money, status, or consequence in the world. How many times was she playing the placid wife, waiting for her husband's return and his leisure to notice her?

_I gave up the stage for this?_

Of course, there was Gustave. But did he really belong to her? As a woman, she had very little involvement in his education now; he had to become _a man_. She did not fight. The love for her own son diminished, as she knew him less and less. What was left in her life?

She had dinner with Daisy in the hotel dining hall, as they had agreed earlier. Daisy seemed a little shocked by Raoul's departure.

"But it is awful, to live in that suite all by yourself! I can't abide that… I know! You must live with me. All I have at my apartment are Mama, two maids and a poodle. Marie and you would have plenty of room. I shall brook no opposition.

And so, Christine, who had indeed dreaded staying in the rooms by herself, sent Marie and her baggage to Daisy's home. She had already met Mrs. Brooke, the maids, and Carino the poodle while she was visiting Daisy three days ago. It was as good company as any she'd had in a long time.

The two ladies walked towards the theater half an hour early. Daisy wore a black evening gown with a diamond pin and earrings. Christine dressed in a somberly blue dress with her favorite string of pearls. They took their seats in the front row, waiting for the ballet to begin. Christine gazed around appreciatively – the premises were cleverly designed and tastefully decorated. It was almost cozy here – she supposed the stage made her feel naturally at home. The lights had dimmed and the music began…


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the wait... and please Review!

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Christine felt as though ghosts surrounded her. She hardly saw what took place on stage; the music seemed to possess her entirely. She was consumed, taken in – she saw nothing. When the lights came on during the intermission, Daisy saw, to her horror, that the woman was white with some strange emotion.

"Christine, dear, what is it? You are deathly pale! Should I take you home?"

"What?"

Christine looked at Daisy, barely aware of her identity. That music… those rhythms… she had never heard anything quite like it, and yet she could easily tell who _must_ have written it. Her only surprise was at herself for not realizing that somehow, somewhere, he or his music would find her. Was she upset that it was only his composition, an echo of him, that caught up with her.

As yet, she did not know.

"Daisy, do not worry about me. I am well, really… it's just that it's … hot in here… It is not too late yet, I shall go for a walk. No, no, don't get up," she added hastily. "Enjoy the rest."

She went out into the foyer, stumbling a little, and settled herself on a velvet-covered bench. In the light of the gas lamps, her surroundings seemed surreal. Her breathing slowed down, her eyelids drooped…

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tall thin man. He stopped in a doorway that probably led to the administrative offices. He surveyed her carefully, and then approached.

"Madam, are you unwell?"

"I am perfectly well, thank you." Christine sat erectly now - the image of the Countess returned almost automatically.

"I must, however, trespass a little longer on your privacy," he said. "The owner of the establishment would like to speak to you."

"Is that so?" Christine was genuinely surprised.

"Yes. He wishes to express his admiration for your taste."

Christine raised an eyebrow.

"He saw you during the performance. He had never been so impressed. The music does not often elicit such a response."

All Christine's attention was focused on the man now.

"Would he… would he know the composer… personally?"

"He might." The man's face was unreadable.

Christine rose slowly. Her brain was working quicker than ever before. Naturally, there was a multitude of unpleasant and potentially dangerous outcomes, were she to follow the stranger. She had no way of knowing who had sent him, and what their true purpose was. There was, however, one overpowering possibility – that the sender might know anything about the one being in the world she could think of right now. That possibility had won. Christine drew a steadying breath and, looking directly into the stranger's eyes, spoke:

"Lead me."

The man gave a little bow and they set off. They entered the hallway whence he emerged; office doors lined it on both sides. The light was dim here. They turned into side corridors two or three times. Finally, the man opened a door and stepped to one side, letting Christine enter. She did so.

The room was just as dim as the passages that led to it. Accustomed to gas and electricity, the young woman blinked in the gentle candlelight. The walls were lined with bookshelves – in fact, the books were the only visible wall A circular table, surrounded with fine mahogany chairs, dominated the center of the room. Finally, a piano stood off to the side.

"A moment, madam," she heard her companion say. Before she could ask any questions, he disappeared through a door to her left – Christine hadn't even noticed it before. Unsure of what to do, she began examining books immediately in front of her. At once she noticed, with some amazement, the variety of languages represented. Some of them she had never seen before. Christine moved slowly clockwise around the room, still reading the titles. About halfway down the second wall, she felt as though she were being watched. Feeling like sharp movements were prohibited, Christine turned slowly on her heels.

A man was leaning against the closed side door, into which the emissary disappeared a while ago. He seemed completely at ease; the black cloak that was probably put on for the sake of a thoroughly concealing hood flowed off his shoulders to reveal rather formal evening attire. Yet something about his figure, his effortless grace pierced Christine's heart with such power, that she swayed on her feet. The man, probably thinking that she might faint, made two steps towards her. That walk made Christine draw a shuddering gasp of a breath. Even so, her self-control returned – Parisian society training was by no means wasted on her.

"My compliments on your establishment, sir," she said as soon as she found her voice. "And my particular congratulations _on the composer you have chosen_." She stared directly at where the eyes had to be under the hood. She intended her last words to show that she remembered the past and recognized the present.

"Thank you, madam." His voice was as familiar as ever; centuries could pass and yet she'd still recognize it amidst all others. Christine's head felt light, and she braced herself, placing a hand on a nearby chair. She could not take her eyes off the man, and hated the cloak for obscuring him so well. At the same time, she did not know what would happen to her when she saw him clearly.

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable if you took a seat?" The casualness with which he spoke astonished the woman. Obediently, she lowered herself on the chair that had held her up for the last few minutes. The man also sat down, taking a chair directly across the room from her.

"So, madam, you enjoy music by obscure composers?" Now his tone conveyed mild curiosity.

"Obscurity is misleading sometimes," Christine replied, surprised by the measured sound of her voice. "People who are regarded as great composers now were not born that way, surely?"

"I grant you that," he replied with the air of impeccable politeness. "Yet I am not certain whether you understand the level of obscurity here."

"On the contrary, sir, I understand extremely well." Christine was proud of her cool tone. "I understand the level of obscurity you speak of – better than you can possibly know."

Her last words somewhat betrayed how much she had meant them. Only now did she manage to verbalize what had been plaguing her for these ten years – obscurity. Naturally, any ball in Paris would be made or broken up by her respective presence or absence. It was an honor for any man to open the dancing with her as his partner. And yet, none of that belonged to her. She was the wife of an important and rich nobleman, nothing more. Others simply tried to approach Raoul by making themselves known to her.

"Surely, a beautiful woman like yourself can know nothing of obscurity?" He was watching her intently now.

"A woman is an appendage to the man in charge of her these days, sir," Christine said. "No matter what my personal merits are, they are outdone by those of my husband. I accept compliments that concern none of my merits; the time when I was important to anyone is long past." The last words were a mere whisper, yet the lady's companion jerked as if she had shouted.

"Do not speak of things you can know nothing about, madam," he said coolly. "I happen to know of one to whom you are the breath of life."

Christine shot a piercing look at him. He did not seem to notice.

"There must be plenty of men at your feet, my lady," he continued.

"Quite possibly, but do they know what I am? Do they see anything beyond my shell?" Her voice became unusually shrill.

"That is not for me to know." The man's self-possession was bordering on insulting.

"You know they don't!" Christine was screaming now. "You know they do not care what I want or like! My husband, the worst of these pretenders, thinking it's romantic to send me white lilies every morning! How I wish to burn them, stamp on them! When all I want" her voice became a whisper, "all I want is… a single red rose… with a black ribbon… on the stem…"


	4. Chapter 4

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As always, thank you for reviewing [hint, hint]

Seconds dragged on, as the man and the woman stared into each other's eyes. It was unclear whether the emotion they exchanged was love, hatred, admiration, or disgust. Neither seemed to be able to speak. Finally, the man broke the silence.

"What an odd preference you have, madam."

"Possibly, but I am absolutely certain that no flower presented in any other manner gives me as much pleasure."

"Why?"

"Pleasant association, sir. The one who favored me that way was the one who loved me best… at least then."

"I would imagine that it is impossible to stop loving you, if one started."

Christine looked at him.

"Evidence points to the contrary."

"What do you mean?" He seemed angry. Perhaps he took it as an accusation aimed at him. Perhaps it was. Christine was not sure.

"The man I thought I loved, the one for whose sake I gave up… too much, no longer cares for me. The man I knew I loved, but whom I feared, seems to have forgotten me. He is cold and distant. His eyes no longer give me warmth."

He watched her so closely, that Christine was certain he saw the blood flow through her veins, the heart contracting in her chest. Then how could he fail to see that her heart was full of him, as always?

"Your husband no longer cares for you?" It was a whisper, but the woman felt it reverberate around the room as if he had shouted. "Madam, I can hardly believe that. No one, fortunate enough to claim you as a wife can be mad enough to disregard you."

"Oh, he does not disregard me," Christine scoffed. "I am the Countess de Chagny, the one who escorts him to social functions. I am the one who organizes the most popular dinners in Paris. He respects and values me… as one would a diamond. A cold, expensive bauble!"

"Please stop," the man said.

Christine saw his hands clenched on the edges on both sides of his chair, white and faintly trembling. He was either very nervous or very angry again.

Silence dragged on again. The man regained his composure somewhat, and Christine felt a little braver. She took a deep breath and spoke.

"Sir, I would appreciate it very much if you took your hood off."

He turned his head very slowly to look at her.

"I am not certain it is necessary, madam." His voice was barely audible.

"I am certain that it is." Her tone was pleading. "Please."

"Why?"

"I must be sure… I cannot go on believing something that may not be true."

A hand rose from his knee. Christine watched it with intensity that surprised even her. Long white fingers grasped the edge of the black hood and slowly pulled it back.

His face was covered by a mask, but it was unmistakably him. Christine smiled – her last doubts had flown at this revelation. Burning coals of his eyes narrowed in calculating surprise.

"So you did recognize me, and yet you show no sign of leaving," he said. "I would have thought a flicker of recognition would send you running."

The woman smiled weakly.

"Never would I imagine that you would step into my theater just like that, and I would not know."

"I did not know it was yours. A family at the hotel recommended it to me, so we came – myself and a friend."

"Does the Count have a distaste for theaters these days?" Erik asked, irony adding an edge to his already hoarse voice.

"Hmph. I have no idea what he likes and doesn't like these days." Christine's candor took him by surprise. "Almost as soon as we arrived, he had to return on business. Maybe _that_ is his favorite pastime."

Erik sprang to his feet and began pacing around the room. The mask concealed his face, but a sort of agitation hung over him like a cloak. Finally, coming to a halt, he turned to face his guest.

"The performance will be over soon. Your friend does not need to know you were here all this time. It may hurt your reputation."

"Maybe it's high time my reputation was hurt," Christine said, rising from the chair. "At any rate, what business is it of hers? I spend my time with whom I will."

"Perhaps, but rumors are easily started. I… only want to be careful." He walked to the door and held it open for her.

"May I call on you?" She spoke very quietly.

"I will find you, Madame, if you so desire," he replied.

"Very much."

She gave him a small bow and left the room.

He was right. As soon as she walked out into the spacious foyer, she saw the audience trickling out of the entrances to the hall. Christine quickly settled herself on the nearest settee and searched the crowd for Daisy. The lady in question emerged at last, swept the foyer with her eyes and, locating her goal, made for her friend.

"Christine, my dear, are you feeling better?"

"Oh, much better – do not fret. It was nice and quiet here, just what I needed." Christine felt her friend's gaze and tried to sound convincing. "No, really, Daisy, I'm well. Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, it was marvelous! Such dancing – and the _music_! Haunting, absolutely haunting – I wish I could express my gratitude to the one who put this together!"

"No pleasure of a guest can be ignored in my theater, madam, especially if the guest is an attractive lady."

Both women jumped at the sound of the voice. Christine, however, had the advantage of recognizing it.

"Oh, sir, you startled us!" Daisy clutched at her heart, but smiled at the masked man who seemed to come from nowhere. Christine suddenly felt as if she expected him to appear all along. She instantly felt doubly aware of her surroundings. What a relief to know that the meeting was not a mirage her tired brain teased her with – Daisy could see him too! Christine almost laughed out loud at the last childish thought.

"I crave your pardon, madam." His voice was just as intoxicating as always. "However, I could not but thank you for the kind words I had the honor of overhearing. Did Madame like the music too?" He now turned to Christine.

"How observant you are! My friend is indeed French," Daisy laughed.

"The music was splendid," the Countess said with a smile. "One rarely hears anything so delightful."

The man bowed.

"Thank you. However, it grows late. I wish you ladies good night." He bowed once again and walked away, brushing past Christine's dress.

When she took it off before bed an hour later, a piece of paper fell out of a pocket. Calligraphic handwriting read:

_I could not help it._


	5. Chapter 5

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The door of his apartment closed, Erik heaved a deep sigh of relief.

Tonight was a success. The patrons gave a five-minute standing ovation. His music triumphed, night after night, as did Miss Temple's teaching skill. Getting those giggling ballet girls to perform like that was no mean feat.

_Like you care about ballet girls._

Erik gave a derisive snort. Shouldn't he have learned to be honest with himself after all these years?

Christine.

Could he think of anything else for the last eighteen years? No matter what feelings she stirred within him – curiosity, love, hatred, passion, envy, anger – she owned his brain and his heart. It was inconceivable to live a day without whispering her name once – like a prayer. His God and guardian angel united in one being, and tonight his dark life was illuminated by its presence.

Was he surprised to see her?

Was he angry at her for entering his life again, just as he began to heal?

_You fool. You coward. Do you not know that healing is impossible?_

He closed his eyes.

Eighteen years…

***

What a lonely child she is!

Erik was watching the girls practice. Germaine was there, just as always. Harsh and demanding – but discipline is key! She really put them through their paces today. That little dark-haired girl is very tired – not that she would ever show it. Her determination to practice and excel is astounding for an eight-year old. But some children have to grow up quicker than others…

Germaine has a soft spot for her, it is obvious in her voice when she speaks of the little Christine Daae. She often grumbles that her own Meg hasn't half of Christine's determination. The poor child lost her father almost as soon as he squeezed her into Germaine's ballet class. Since then – alone, always alone! Erik felt an odd sort of kinship with her. Sometimes, he would quietly come to her bedside when she slept. A strange feeling of protectiveness would possess him then, and he would get the urge to dry every tear she shed in her troubled slumber.

Another year passed. Christine made friends with Meg. The two girls would often talk as they drifted to sleep. Erik listened to those conversations and, unseen, learned volumes about the Swedish girl. Among other things, he was never tired of her talking about her father. He was a God to this little orphan. Once, she spoke of the Angel of Music – invisible, but good. What a faith the child has!

One day, Erik was leaving Madame Giry's quarters after leaving a note, when he heard IT. That was the only way he could think of describing the voice that issued from a room nearby. Slipping into a disguised door, he almost ran to see who was doing that.

It was her. Christine was sitting on a stool, tying her dancing shoes and vocalizing out of boredom. Erik suddenly realized that what he heard wasn't her.

It was what she could become under proper guidance.

And so, he introduced himself that night. Angel of Music was born here on earth. Germaine was informed to ignore Christine's late vigils twice a week. Her voice grew, bloomed, and by the time she was seventeen and ready, it became the heavenly trill that Erik had heard that very first time. And then… disaster!

What was the use of berating himself for past mistakes?

Now, when he had some time to dwell on it, he was surprised. Three hours ago, all he could feel was _joy_.

She is here, in the flesh!

He remembered that exquisite feeling of shock when, sweeping the crowd scrambling for their seats, he first saw her. She was with a lady friend; they spoke and laughed; he saw Christine look over the hall with an approving nod. He also saw her stiffen in the dark when the music began. And so he realized that she _knew_, she could feel his presence in the notes he had written thinking invariably of her.

And then she excused herself. She fled. He watched her, pale and wide-eyed, in the deserted foyer. He felt he had to find out why she fled from his music. Did the memory of him revolt her? Has she never forgiven him the horror he had inflicted.

So he had Alfred, his secretary, bring her to him. What moments those were – how he longed and feared to touch her! When he bowed her out, he instantly felt what a bout of madness came over him. And so, to ensure that she was quite real, Erik greeted her and the companion in the foyer. He briefly wondered whether she had found the note yet.

Seeing her again was like taking a deep breath after a long dive. Nothing could revive him the way she did.

But he mustn't allow himself to lose his reason. He must tread carefully, or the consequences will be dreadful for her. And he could not bear to harm her. Not anymore. He had been vicious, cruel in the past, thinking it was for the best… That cost him everything.

Erik took an armchair in the sitting room, still lost in thought, barely aware of his surroundings. He could afford that now.

Firstly, there must be as little contact as possible in public. It must look like a casual introduction – no one must know that they had met before. When it is possible, she can come to his office…

Erik shook his head. _Listen to yourself!_

What can compel her to see him? She is frightened of him – and rightfully so! Her life is in France now, a wife and a mother, a leader of the smart set in Paris. Who is he to force her to remember that terror? And must he torment himself with visions of a future that was gone ten years ago?

But she had said…

How can that man fail to see what a treasure she is? Such a beautiful, talented being – any man would worship a wife like that. He, Erik, would give everything he had for being able to be the man she deserved. For only a hint of hope…

_Enough!_

He rose with a jerk. This was more than he could bear. He refused to have his heart cut open by those eyes of hers. He will not cross her path again. They were as distant as life could make them; breaching the chasm would only give pain. He made his way to the bedroom, thinking of the many obligations that awaited him tomorrow.

***

A week had passed. Erik had successfully evaded any pangs of regret. Work had consumed him with a newly found urgency. His secretary could feel a change, but it was not his place to enquire. And Erik saw nothing but the most pressing matter to be dealt with. He refused to examine this new drive, this hunger to be busy. Masked, wearing a dark, expensive suit, he saw people, signed contracts, and felt as if he was doing something worthwhile.

One afternoon, while having tea with a member of the theater administration, the very topic he so diligently avoided jumped out at him from nowhere.

"You know, Mr. Mueller, I think it's high time for us to diversify. Ballets and symphonies are all very well, but what say you to something a tad more dramatic? What say you to an opera?"

Erik stared at the man for a moment. Then, before he could stop himself, a wave of mad laughter came over him. For five minutes he tried to regain his breath, until the poor man began to question his employer's sanity.

"I… I'm s-sorry, John," Erik said, finally able to speak. "I understand your incredulity, but nobody has _asked_ me to stage an opera before… No, don't try to understand. It is all in the past, dead and buried. It is a good idea; however, I will not act upon it. The simple reason is that there is no singer of the quality I am willing to showcase. I did not build this theater to celebrate mediocrity, and in the modern opera world, unfortunately, that is all that can be found."

John could only nod.


	6. Chapter 6

6

As always, many thanks for reviewing. NOTE: Just as I do not own Phantom, I don't own La Traviata. It's just my favorite opera, from which I borrowed two lines. It is not mine.

Meanwhile, Christine lived in a kind of a dream. She feared waking more than anything. The one idea that lived in her brain was – _he lives! He exists, we touched – he was not a swirl of mist, he was real!_ These thoughts gave her a new sort of vitality, a reason to live. What comfort it was to know that somewhere in this city there was a man who knew her, who cared for her, if only a little.

If Daisy noticed a change, she kept her thoughts to herself. Her chief concern was to make Christine as happy and comfortable as was possible. She was still fuming over the Count's departure and marveled at how anyone could live with a man like that for ten years. It was not her business, however; so she had set out to show New York off to its best advantage.

In the course of all this, her father returned from a business trip. Christine liked Arthur Brooke almost immediately. He was much like his daughter – warm and open. On the first night, a conversation began before Christine even noticed. He talked a little of his sojourn in Europe – as it turned out, he had spent quite a period in Paris. He made his wife scoff at some of the tales, but then a topic began that made Christine feel some unease.

"And then, Madame de Chagny, if you'll believe it, the chandelier came crashing down! I've never seen anything like it! I was quite relieved, you understand, to be sitting in one of the Grand Tier boxes, but the pandemonium was like you wouldn't believe! The poor little soprano ran away, the corps de ballet was rolling in hysteria, and the crowd went mad!"

"I can only imagine," Christine said. She was very grateful that she had never mentioned her opera career to Daisy. All her friend knew was that the Frenchwoman was exceedingly fond of music, and especially opera. No one needed to know anything beyond that.

"What a tale, my dear," Beatrice Brooke shook her head. "Who do you suppose that madman was?"

"I haven't the slightest notion, my love." Arthur took a sip of tea. "I left Paris the next morning to return to New York, so I do not know how the thing ended."

_That's a good thing_, Christine thought.

"Ah, but Father, dear, isn't it so very odd for a man to drop a chandelier just because he disliked the leading lady!" Daisy seemed to be torn between amusement and disapproval.

"Yes, dear, very odd indeed, but I must say, her voice was horrendous, truly horrendous!"

The family laughed, and Christine had to join in. Her sense told her that it was too late to mourn those days now that they were so decidedly over. It has been two weeks since she saw Erik and he showed no interest in her. Christine supposed that she could hardly blame him – did she not betray him ten years ago? Still, a part of her did hope to see him again, whatever the cost.

"Ah, I almost forgot! We are invited to a ball, my dears, and the Countess, if she is so good as to join us," Arthur said. "A friend of mine has a daughter who is making her debut in society – Clara Winn, you know. Mr. and Mrs. Winn have heard of our guest and included her in the invitation."

Christine groaned inwardly. A ball? Her Parisian life cannot be left behind for long, then. To please her hosts, however, she agreed to go. Just before she went up to bed some time later, Daisy took her aside.

"Thank you, Christine, my dear. I know it must be very tiresome for you to go out like this, but it does mean the world to Papa and Mama. They are very fond of you already, and they wish to show you everything our city has to offer. Besides, we are frequently looked down on in society, and were we to bring you anywhere…" Daisy looked uncomfortable.

"I quite understand, and you don't have to look guilty. By all means I'll go!"

***

Erik could not, for the life of him, understand how he got dragged into this. On the one hand, pleasing Mr. Winn as a potential patron was wise. On the other – _a debutante ball?_

"John, you have my word that if nothing comes out of this, I won't speak to you for a week."

"You don't speak to me either way, sir," John chuckled. "Getting past Alfred is absolutely impossible."

"That's why he still has a job."

"Hmmm…."

The two men walked into the spacious mansion. Erik ignored the butler's poorly concealed glance at his mask. The dancing had obviously not started yet, so they were shown into a splendid drawing room. It appeared that a woman, sitting at the piano with her back to them was about to sing. Leaning against a marble column, his eyes closed, Erik prayed for patience.

***

Christine cursed her weakness. Not only did she permit herself to be dragged to a ball, she also had to let it slip that she had some singing ability. As a matter of fact, she could barely tell how the latter had happened. Next thing she knew, she was at the piano, asking the young Miss Winn if she liked any opera in particular.

La Traviata[1]? Well, the girl did have some taste. An additional inquiry ascertained the favorite aria. Christine could only chuckle – the piece answered her feelings impeccably. She touched the keys with her fingers and began.

***

Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti.

Le rose del volto già son pallenti[2]

Erik had to make an inhuman effort not to run in the direction of the voice. Naturally, he recognized the singer instantly. Once the initial shock wore off, he could listen with a critical ear. What on earth had the woman been doing, hadn't she practiced? Oh, her voice was still enchanting, that was true – his entire being reeled from delight – but it was obvious to him that this was her first time to sing in a while. He shook his head in despair – what a waste!

***

As the last notes died down, a second-long hush took over the room, and then – thunderous applause. Christine rose and curtseyed, thanking the company. As she lifted her eyes, her gaze brushed past the column in the back of the room. Her heart skipped a beat. Nothing but the eyes could be discerned beneath the white mask, but those were full of approval, almost grudgingly bestowed. Carefully assessing where everyone's attention was – they were still clapping, but already forming groups to gush over her talent – she sent him a triumphant smile. He responded with a barely perceptible bow.

It was finally time to move to the ballroom. The cortege of sorts was headed by the host leading his daughter, Arthur Brooke following immediately behind with his wife on one arm and Christine on the other.

[1] La Traviata – an opera in three acts by Giuseppe Verdi, first performed on March 6, 1853.

[2] Farewell, bright memories of the past. My rosy cheeks are pale.


	7. Chapter 7

7

Many thanks to my readers! Please keep reviewing – tell me if you like where this is going, share your opinions. Reviews make me want to keep writing!

Three dances flew by, and Christine still couldn't find him in the crowd. At the beginning of the sixth, however, she spotted him being addressed by Mr. Winn. The men noticed her looking at them, and Christine turned away quickly. Out of the corner of her right eye, she could see the host give Erik a small bow, and the two men crossed the ballroom to approach her.

"Madame la Comtesse, this gentleman wishes to be introduced to you."

"By all means," she smiled.

"Mr. Mueller, ma'am. The Countess de Chagny." Winn was positively glowing with self-satisfaction as Christine stretched her hand to be kissed. The latter was duly done.

"If Madame will give me the honor of this waltz, I should be very grateful." Erik's voice was so calm that Christine began to wonder

"With all my heart, sir." She handed her fan to Daisy, who raised an eyebrow, and walked to the floor. When his hand slid neatly around her waist, Christine began to doubt the reality of the proceedings. Yet there he was, right in front of her, solid and real. She could feel hesitation in his touch, as if he didn't trust himself to be able to withstand such close physical contact with a human being.

"Well, now, Madame, I suppose this is as good occasion as any to say that you have neglected your voice abominably," he began with a touch of sarcasm.

"Come, you know I had no voice master to ensure my diligence," Christine replied. If he wanted to keep things light, she wouldn't object.

"Is that a valid excuse for not practicing?"

"Was I really that awful?" Christine felt a pang of shame.

"No, that is not what I meant. Your voice is still as fine as ever, but I know you are capable of better… with practice."

"I'm sorry, but singing isn't a required social grace." Christine shook her head to dislodge a stray lock of hair. "Not that I've heard of."

"That's not the point."

"Don't make me feel worse," Christine said quietly; in fact, Erik had to strain to hear her over the music. "I can't stop thinking about how I miss singing… I loved it, and I love it still." Suddenly, her face regained the composed smile. "But that's not the point either."

"When did you stop singing?" Erik felt he had to know.

"After I married, naturally." Christine replied. Erik could see how much it hurt her to admit it. "Sometimes, even now, when there is no one to hear me, I play, but I haven't sung until today."

"Why?"

"I don't know… I just didn't feel up to it. Until today. Strange, isn't it? I do miss it, however." Christine sounded earnest.

"Hmph. I suppose not," Erik replied, irritation dripping from every syllable. "However, I am forgetting the reason I approached you in the first place." He smirked as Christine raised an eyebrow. "I came here tonight to please the host, who is being approached by my managers as a possible patron. One of them, Mr. John Whitefield… ah… persuaded me to come. He even saw fit to accompany me – for some reason, he was not convinced that I'd go on my own."

Christine had to chuckle.

"At any rate, he heard you sing and, not knowing who you are, insisted that I speak to you about performing for us – naturally, an impossibility, considering your rank." Erik would never in a million years admit that he used the manager's pleas as an excuse to approach the only woman he saw in the room. Neither would he suppose that the lady in question would be in any doubt as to that. They had always understood each other on some unidentifiable level.

Christine appeared curious.

"What did you have in mind as my repertoire?"

"Ah, well… John insists I stage an opera, but so far I've refused – modern sopranos are painful to listen to, and worse still to watch. However, with appropriate cast, we could…"

The music wound down to a close, almost catching them both off-guard. Christine mentally cursed the composer for writing such a ridiculously short piece. She curtsied to her partner and was led by him back to the Brookes, Beatrice being the only person in the corner. Arthur was deep in conversation with a gentleman Christine did not know some distance from them, and Daisy was being led to the floor by someone. Mrs. Brooke handed the fan back to Christine.

"That idea sounds very interesting, Mr. Mueller. Now, did you have any particular opera in mind?"

Erik's eyes seemed to gaze at her very soul. For a few minutes, he looked to be deep in thought.

"Are you familiar with _La boheme_[1]?" he asked.

"Why, yes. I'm very fond of it, despite the popular opinion." Christine nodded appreciatively. "That is a very interesting project… and a _tempting_ one." She shot him a pointed look.

"Why, my dear Countess, it sounds as though you are turning into an opera singer!" Beatrice did not mean her words to sound so derogatory and felt a little ashamed of herself; the next moment, however, she was too preoccupied – both the Countess and the strange Mr. Mueller turned to stare at her with identical looks of astonishment and… displeasure?

"I am afraid your remark comes a little… too late, Mrs. Brooke," Christine said softly, gently, as though speaking of a sacred secret. "I am an opera singer – " here she gave a wry smile – "or, at the very least, I was trained to be one… some years ago."

"But… oh, I apologize so, so very much!" Beatrice knew not what to say, but an unexpected savior appeared and spared her further embarrassment.

"My lady Countess," Erik said, "allow me to present my manager, Mr. John Whitefield." Christine was more than happy to smile up at the sandy-haired man before her. She was quite struck by his height and green eyes which gazed at her with an expression of profound disbelief.

"A Countess?" His voice was infused with disappointment. "Forgive me, please, I was hoping to beg you…"

Erik was quick to interrupt.

"Countess de Chagny, John, and I've already told her about your idea."

"Ah, I see. Madame, allow me to express my admiration for your obvious talent. Your voice is pure wind chime; happy is he who may be fortunate enough to hear it regularly."

Erik disguised his astonishment. He had never heard John speak thus; but he knew that the inducement was fitting.

After all, did he not share the sentiment?

Christine could only smile on, inclining her head in thanks.

"I am very sorry to upset you, Mr. Whitefield. I know that women of my position in society do not frequent theaters as performers. However, I was an opera singer before marriage, and I did enjoy it very much." She paused. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mrs. Brooke, still quite shocked. "I will add that lately, an idea to revive my skill has often been on my mind." Now, Christine had the satisfaction of seeing Erik's eyes dilate in shock. "I haven't seriously considered it until this very moment. Could we not meet in a few days – that would give you some time to consider the possibilities, while I think about returning to the stage."

"But Madame!" Beatrice was almost gasping for air. "Your husband is certain to object to such a … display. It would be most improper…"

"My dear Mrs. Brooke," Christine's voice was the epitome of composure, but her eyes were lit with an odd fire – "my husband knew whom he had married. I can only regret his displeasure, but if I am determined to sing – then sing I will, with his approval or without it."

Daisy, who had just rejoined the party, was torn between amusement at her mother's expression and something akin to worry about her most recent French friend. She felt that Christine was heading for something that would change her world forever.

[1] La boheme – an opera by Giacomo Puccini. It premiered in Torino on February 1, 1896. Initially, it was considered scandalous, due to the low social class of its heroes and a slightly more risqué imagery than what opera goers had been used to.


	8. Chapter 8

8

I am very sorry for the hectic update schedule. It's just me being a college student. I am going to finish this, it'll just take a while. Many thanks for the reviews – I cherish each and every one of them, and there's never enough ;).

Christine was completely alone in the guest bedroom of the Brookes' home. She was in a simple linen nightgown. Sitting before a large mirror, she brushed her hair methodically. The repetitive motion helped her think, and think she must.

She still wasn't sure what made her sing. But that was the less momentous change. It was the conversation with Erik and John Whitefield that had the potential to change her life. How, she wasn't certain. Again and again she wondered what had made her to say what she said. Again and again she felt as if she was possessed, hypnotized…

Her hand stopped and gripped the brush tighter still.

She gazed at her reflection.

Maybe it was the other way around? How ironic.

With a swift motion, she placed the brush on the vanity before her, then pulled herself to stand. Pacing was required to fully grasp the thought that entered her mind.

Ten years ago she fled from a man who took possession of her mind. He infiltrated every decision she had made up to that point. He hypnotized her with his voice, his eyes, his demeanor – all was fashioned to capture her. But did she not fall into the very trap she attempted to leave behind? She was hypnotized after all – by Raoul. He became her master in all senses of the word; he alone wielded an impressive amount of power. He could say what she could and could not do, whom she could and could not see. He forced her to give up the two essential halves of her soul – music and Erik.

But no more.

Christine faced the mirror once more. The woman staring back had blazing, feverish eyes.

_My God, I look deranged._

_Well, perhaps I am._

Her road was paved before her. She had to right her wrongs that destroyed their lives – Erik's and hers.

While there was still time.

_If_ there was still time.

***

Christine looked well and she knew it. A visiting suit of cream silk carefully wrapped about her figure, not accentuating, but not hiding anything, either. She stepped out of the Brookes' motorcar, thanked the driver and reminded him to be back in three hours. Having done that, she ascended the staircase that led to the entrance to the music hall.

It was yesterday that she received Erik's curt summons "to discuss their conversation matter further." She was given to understand that Mr. Whitefield would be present, as well. Three days had passed since the fateful ball, and Christine had just begun to feel anxious. The note, cold as it was, calmed her a little. At least, it wasn't an irrevocable no.

She entered the cool foyer and looked around, unsure what to do next. Almost immediately, her eyes found the man who guided her on that very first evening. He made his way towards her with a dignified stride.

"Madame de Chagny," he greeted her with a bow upon approach. "I am Alfred Gront, Mr. Mueller's private secretary. I am to take you to his office."

"Thank you very much," Christine smiled and followed him.

This time, she was led past the room where she had spoken to Erik, through a waiting room just beyond, which housed cozy armchairs and a large desk (which, she presumed, was Alfred's) and into a large, well-lit office. Long couches, covered in dark-green velvet lined the oak walls; a fine mahogany desk stood directly across from the door. Greed drapes framed the two large windows on either side of the chair behind the desk, occupied by Erik. He nodded to Alfred, who immediately left, closing the door quietly.

"Well, Madame, why don't you take this chair," he suggested, waving an impatient hand toward the chair which stood on the side of the desk closest to his guest. Christine inclined her head in thanks and settled herself comfortably.

"Mr. Whitefield will be joining us a little later," Erik continued, apparently quite at ease. "I thought a private conversation was called for."

"Very well," Christine replied, adjusting her parasol into a convenient position.

Erik heaved a deep sigh.

"Christine, what are you thinking?"

The question caught her by surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you know what I'm referring to!" Another impatient hand gesture. "Your little circus act with singing for my theater – how on Earth did you expect me to believe that for a second? What is your goal here?"

Christine blinked innocently.

"Why, Erik," – here she had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch – "why, there isn't an act at all! Can't I sincerely wish to return to the stage? Is that so hard to believe?"

For once, Erik truly had no reply. He did, however, have questions.

"What of your… husband? Won't he object?" He had to almost choke the hateful term out.

"If he does object having a singer for a wife, I have a solution," Christine said, her face unconcerned. "He can divorce me and clear his sullied name." She could almost taste Erik's shock.

"But… your son! Surely you can't abandon a child?"

"He won't know the difference." Christine's voice was painfully bitter. "He has been brought up by governesses and tutors, and I was never permitted to interfere. Do you know, when he was born, I thought – here's a reason to live, at last! But he was snatched away before I could protest… Erik," her voice grew more urgent with every syllable, "I beg you, give me singing! Give me a reason to live, for I have no other!" Her voice shook with deep emotion; her eyes were strangely wild.

Erik was struck – never before had he seen her in such a desperate state. He cursed the handsome Count again and again for turning his songbird into a caged canary.

"Very well," he said, sounding composed. "Won't you at least write to him to announce your plans?"

"Actually, I was planning on returning to Paris for a month or two for that very reason. I don't think I can explain it in a letter."

"I see." Erik watched her carefully.

"There is a chance… well, actually, I see two possibilities. A third is possible, but unlikely."

"Oh?"

"Well, firstly, he may divorce me and forbid to cross his doorstep again."

Now, Erik could only stare. _Why did she not sound concerned at all?_ Her next words, however, would have caused him to fall into the nearest chair, had he not been sitting down already.

"That is vastly preferable to the other two. They are – either he locks me up somewhere to ensure I'll not disgrace him, or there is a terrible row between us, I slam his door, and he follows me here. I cannot vouch for his temper – he may take that Bible verse to heart – cut off the hand that leads you into sin."

A minute of silence followed.

"Well, I suppose there _is the_ slight chance he'll just let me go peacefully. I try to pretend that can be the case, but… it wouldn't be in his character."

"If he so much as touches a hair on your head…"

"He's hardly going to publicize it if he does," Christine cut him off. "I doubt that he'll harm me physically. He is a nobleman, after all, brought up to respect a lady. However, he may prevent me from leaving – and feel completely justified."

Before Erik could make a reply, there was a knock on the door. John had arrived.


	9. Chapter 9

9

Thank you for your kind reviews – please keep them coming, as they are wonderfully encouraging! I am sorry for the slow updates, but finals are almost here. The good thing is, once they are gone, it's the summer vacation for me, so my writing speed should pick up. Just in case you weren't aware, all I own in this story are a few original characters. That means – you guessed it – that I do not own Phantom, or _La boheme_, or _Lucia di Lammermoor_. If you wish to listen to any of the arias mentioned throughout the story, send me a message and I can give you some suggestions.

Christine de Chagny walked with a new spring in her step. The Brookes' chauffeur left her at the music hall. Five days had passed since her last visit. John most gratefully received her acceptance of the position. She was offered rather generous terms, and today was her audition. As she thought that speedy settlement of affairs with her husband was necessary, her ticket to the first ship for France was in her purse. That would take place tomorrow. All her luggage was packed already.

Alfred met her in the foyer, a cordial welcome on his face. He led her into the auditorium. John, Erik and a few others sat in the front row. After a short conference with his staff, Erik rose from his seat and disappeared through an inconspicuous side door. Christine smiled to herself, instinctively aware of his intention.

She was correct. Half a minute later, he joined her on the stage. Christine moved to stand beside the piano.

"Do you mind if I play?" he asked quietly. Christine only bowed her head.

He settled himself comfortably, flexing his fingers a few times. Finally, his eyes met hers expectantly.

"Any requests, my lady?"

"Anything you wish, Mr. Mueller, provided I know it…" A sudden idea crossed her mind. "_Quando rapito en estasi?_"[1]

Erik nodded, his fingers ready. Had it been the just two of them here, he would have smirked. The piece was the one he used to make her voice grow once upon a time. They worked on the entire soprano score for _Lucia_ for a very long time – only when Christine could flawlessly perform the Mad Scene[2] was she allowed tossing in public.

And now, _Lucia_ would decide their fate once again. Well, not really. It wasn't a question whether the dark-haired woman, now singing to his accompaniment, would be permitted to perform on his stage. The audition was a mere formality; he had heard her sing at that silly ball and had the satisfaction of knowing that her voice hadn't lost its charm, magic, beauty. Now, she confirmed it with her smooth performance.

As her voice wound down into silence with the last notes, the small group of men erupted into applause. Erik gave her an approving nod. Christine curtseyed with a satisfied smile. John was now leading the others across the stage towards her.

"Well, gentlemen, I think it's quite obvious that there can be no better candidate," he said. "Madame, I am not aware if Mr. Mueller has informed you, but we have agreed to start with _La boheme_ and see how it progresses. Would you be Mimi[3] for us?"

"Gladly." Christine looked well pleased.

Erik rose from his seat.

"That's that, then – I am afraid we have to cut this short, as the ballet will come to rehearse for tonight in a few moments. Thank you for your time, gentlemen."

The group thanked Christine and left.

"Now, you satisfied _them_," Erik smirked, "but your audition isn't quite over yet. Follow me, if you please."

Christine, who wasn't in the least surprised, obeyed him. They moved to the room where she saw him for the first time. He sat at the piano and spoke.

"Anything you would prefer to sing?"

"I seem to remember a rather marvelous duet from _Lucia_," Christine smiled innocently. "Would you help me with Verrato a te sull'aure?[4]"

Eric heaved a sigh. How was it that he could refuse her nothing when she stood so close? Where was his self-control? Of course he'd sing the dratted duet. _It wasn't like it was one of his favorites_, he thought – _and she knows it!_ And their voices blended perfectly, just as he had known all along they would. As the last bars faded into silence, they watched each other, unable to disregard the meaning of what had been sung. Both knew that they meant and felt every syllable.

"That was very well sung," Erik said briskly, liberating – or dragging – himself out of the self-imposed reverie. "And I can see you only improving with practice. But it grows late, and I really must look in on the ballet rehearsal." He rose from his seat with an almost believable burst of energy. "I wish you a safe journey, … Madame la Comtesse."

"Good bye, Mr. Mueller." If Christine was hurt by the dismissal, she would most certainly not admit it. She made her way to the door. Erik followed her and held the door open for her.

"Good bye," he replied.

As he watched the train of her skirt turn a corner and disappear, he could not help but add:

"My love."

***

The ocean crossing was very brief. Christine was almost disappointed. She felt that her sensation of being torn away from something so precious had to be reflected by the weather. However, the early August sun shone brightly, as if unaware of her sentiments.

The farewell with the Brookes had been short, but friendly. Daisy thought it was _ perfectly delicious_ that she planned to return and sing on stage. Mrs. Brooke felt that it was odd, but was too well-bred to say so outright. Mr. Brooke was a little concerned about how the Count would take the news.

Christine felt a little anxious on that score as well. She was trying to frame the communication of her intentions into a form that did not offend – _too much_ – and that would entail mentioning Erik as few times as possible. She was certain it included a divorce under any circumstances.

Her arrival to Paris was uneventful. Almost as soon as she got off the train, she saw the carriage emblazoned with the Chagny coat of arms and the driver, who, having already seen Madame, held the door open for her.

"Thank you, Jacques," Christine said, entering the vehicle. "I trust your family is well?"

"Very well, Madame, thank you. Welcome back, Madame."

Christine smiled at the good man, who was now shutting the door.

As the horse-drawn carriage moved through the crowded streets, Christine returned to her musings. She did not wish to lie – she had lied enough, both to herself and to others. And Raoul, who was essentially a good man, deserved better. After all, he was a faithful, steady husband, who provided her with an existence that was well beyond what could be termed "comfortable." He lived with her for ten years; they had a son. Things like that could not be swept under a rug and discarded.

That was another problem – the boy. How to do things right by him, Christine had no idea. He deserved to grow up in a loving, complete family, but could theirs be seen as such? Christine knew she'd insist on seeing him periodically. She was his mother – she loved him, despite the distance that drove them apart. They would get to know each other better than if they lived under the same roof. She'd write to him, and visit him, and maybe even be called something other than "Madame" or "Mother" by him.

The carriage stopped.

Christine returned to her family's Parisian home.

[1] An aria from Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor, premiered in Naples in 1835. The translation of the lyrics comes down to this: When caught in the ecstasy of his torrid passion with words only of the heart he swears to be faithful to me forever./ Then I forget my worries./Joy replaces my sorrow./When I am beside him, it seems like heaven has revealed itself to me.

[2] The Mad Scene is the hardest soprano part in the opera, where the performer can truly show her voice off.

[3] Mimi – the role for the leading soprano in _La boheme_.

[4] English lyrics are as follows: You will hear upon the breeze my longing sighs./You'll hear in the murmuring sea the echo of my laments./And when you think of my sorrow – how sad and lonely I must be – then shed a bitter tear for this pledge of our love!


	10. Chapter 10

10

Begging pardon for rare updates. My vacation has started, however, so the prospect is brightening. Don't forget to review!

Christine opened her eyes slowly. The dim surroundings did nothing to clear her confusion. Where on earth was she?

Seconds later, as her eyes took in the now familiar mahogany furniture and the portrait of herself across the room from the bed, she remembered. She returned to the Chagny mansion in Paris after the three months in New York. She was gone most of the summer, so the dreaded social season must be approaching.

Christine dressed with slow, methodical movements. She needed to be alone, so ringing for Marie did not appeal to her. A light mauve gown suited her pensive mood. Afterwards, she made her way to her personal sitting room, in which the piano stood. Positioning herself before a window, she let her mind have free reign.

Raoul was not in yesterday – business called him to an estate some sixty miles away. Gustave was, presumably, cloistered with his exacting tutor all day, but they'd go for a walk today. Christine recalled with some satisfaction the conversation she had with M. Fouchert which took place last night. He had been invited to this very room after dinner. After an awkward bow, he inquired to what he owed the honor.

"Why, my good M. Fouchert," Christine spoke in honeyed tones, "this formality is rather silly, don't you think? I only meant to enquire after my son's progress."

"It is quite satisfactory – more than satisfactory, Madame. His Latin progresses well, he is rather good at mathematics, and generally gives me no cause for alarm."

"That is just what I wished to hear," the woman beamed. "Since he's progressing so well, can't he have a day off tomorrow?" She had to bite her lip in order to prevent laughter – the tutor looked nonplused.

"But, Madame," he said in an uncertain, hesitating manner, "Madame, the discipline must be preserved! It is the particular wish of Monsieur that…"

"M. Fouchert, I have no wish to oppose Count's instructions." Christine was surprised to hear herself referring to him in that way – not _my husband_ or _Raoul_ or _your master_. "But I haven't seen him for so long. The day after tomorrow he'll be back, just as obedient as ever."

"I cannot refuse, Madame, but the Count will be displeased."

"Allow me to manage that. Surely I, the mother, have a right to see my son?"

"Of course, Madame, I quite agree."

The result was that promptly at ten Gustave entered the Blue Salon, where his mother was waiting. He wore a smart green suit. Christine looked well in a pearly-gray walking dress. She kissed the boy and walked him downstairs into a waiting carriage. The driver already had his instructions.

Having settled comfortably, Christine put an arm around the boy.

"How are you, my dear?"

"I am very well, Mother, thank you." Christine thought that the boy looked very nervous, as though a single misstep could earn him a scolding. It probably did in the schoolroom.

Christine tried to make conversation throughout the ride. Gustave was unfailingly polite and proper, but he was clearly trying very hard. Finally, the carriage stopped. Christine was helped out, took the basket handed by Marie and, holding the boy's hand in hers, walked in a predetermined direction. She noted the troubled look Gustave gave the carriage as it drove away. His eyes widened as he took in the sight that now lay before him.

They were on the bank of a large lake, surrounded by vast trees. Several ducks trotted importantly through the shallow water near the shore. Chirping could be heard from every tree.

"Do you like it here?" Christine asked, a soft smile illuminating her face.

"Oh, yes, Mother, it is so very splendid!" Gustave could not resist the scenery bathed in golden rays of the sun.

His mother's smile widened, becoming warmer still. She led him toward a vast oak which would provide ample shade. Opening the basket, she produced a thick quilt, which was now spread on the soft grass. Having lowered herself, she patted a spot nearby.

"Have a seat, darling."

Gustave obeyed.

"I came here with my father – every weekend, actually," Christine said thoughtfully. "Did I ever tell you about that?"

"No, Mother," the boy replied.

"Well, this is the perfect place then. I named you after him, you know. He was a very good man, and the best father anyone could ask for. When we came to France, we lived in a little cottage by the sea. That was such a happy time – the seagulls would wake me up every morning…" Christine lost herself for a few moments, remembering those days. "However, the climate ruined his health – Normandy was cold. We moved to Paris. He hoped to earn a living by teaching music, but that did not last. He was too ill."

She twirled a blade of grass thoughtfully.

"While we lived in Paris, he would often take me into the surrounding country on weekends, and that's how we found this place," Christine concluded. "He loved nature – he'd call it 'music for the eyes.'"

"How lovely," Gustave breathed.

The rest of the three hours was devoted to Christine's further tales of her father. Gustave listened with keen interest – Christine remembered herself as a little girl, spellbound by her father's renditions of family legends. The stories continued throughout the journey back. The woman was delighted to find that Gustave relaxed a little; his smile did not seem to be quite so forced now. His embrace was much warmer, as he was taken to his quarters in the mansion.

The rest of the day Christine devoted to letter-writing. She penned a grateful note to the Brookes, thanking them for the kind hospitality. The rest of the letters were less sincere, but necessary – the Countess had an obligation to inform the ladies of her circle of her return. Each note ended with a cordial invitation to tea the next week. That was proper and would be expected of her. Thinking that her mother-in-law ought to be attended to by way of an epistle as well, Christine reached for the next piece of the pompous stationery, when someone knocked on her sitting-room door. It was Marie.

"The Count has just arrived, Madame, and wishes to inquire whether you would dine with him."

"Oh, yes, of course." _About time. Where did they say he was?_ Christine wondered idly. No matter – she'll have to hear all about it at dinner. With a sigh, she went to the dressing room and selected the gown to wear – a confection of plum silk. She fondly remembered the pleasant lack of stateliness in the Brooke home – they did dress for dinner, but this was a veritable ball gown! Having decided on her appearance, Christine began to plan her tactics, as the dinner conversation was almost certain to turn sour.


	11. Chapter 11

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Christine descended the grand staircase to find Raoul waiting for her at the bottom with a serene smile on his lips. He looked rather handsome in the formal evening attire; for the first time she wondered whether the years changed her as little. Only ten minutes ago, she gave herself one final appraising look in the mirror upstairs and thought herself still rather pretty, but not extraordinary.

"Why, my darling, it does so please me to see you here!" This was accompanied by a kiss of her hand. An elbow was offered and accepted immediately afterward.

"It feels very good to return," Christine replied, watching Raoul nod with the same catlike gratification. She had no idea where the comparison came from – but his smugly pleased demeanor did rather remind her of a well-fed cat.

They proceeded to the dining room, where a small table was set for two. It relieved the woman that the evening was to be a tete a tete – there were things she meant to discuss – strictly privately, of course.

The first half hour was filled by Raoul's detailing the reason for his absence. It seemed, Maman wished to buy an estate for a country retreat of her own, and he inspected a suggestion made by an acquaintance of theirs. The house was quite agreeable, Maman would visit it directly, and the matter would soon be concluded.

"Did you enjoy yourself in New York, my dear?" he finally asked. Christine heaved a mental sigh. It seemed the conversation couldn't be stalled even till dessert. _Here we go, God help me!_

"Yes, I had a marvelous time. Daisy and her family were most charming and friendly. I did quite a bit of sightseeing… and Raoul, there's something I'd like to talk to you about in connection to New York."

"Oh, really? Would you like to go back next summer? That could be arranged."

"Something like that," Christine assented uncomfortably. "You see, while there, I met a… gentleman." _If I tell him who it was, he _will_ have me locked up._ "He owns a small opera house. He heard me sing… quite by accident, of course, and he begged me to sing for him."

Raoul looked nonplussed.

"You know, I've been thinking, I really want to return to the stage. I miss it so very much –"

"Christine, what has come over you?" Raoul couldn't help but interrupt. "You swore ten years ago, that no inducement would make you sing professionally again. You stopped singing _altogether_! What happened now?"

_I found my inspiration again_, Christine longed to say, but couldn't.

"It was so long ago, and I was frightened," she said, trying not to sound exceedingly nervous. "But music is not something that abandons one upon request. I simply feel the need to be what I once was – what I always have been – a performer."

"That is all very well, but – our family? Our _son_?" Raoul seemed to realize that Christine was in earnest.

"I doubt that he'll notice the difference," Christine remarked. "He doesn't see me for weeks at a time during the season – you always have to take me to every gathering. And I'd write to him. It's just that I'd be absent during the season – in the summer, I'd return."

"How can you possibly consider it? Countess de Chagny, singing on stage – really, Christine, even _your_ vivid imagination cannot produce such a scheme!"

"Please, Raoul, do not make this any harder on us," Christine implored, her last civil thoughts being quickly replaced by less forgiving sentiments.

"I am not the one complicating matters!" Raoul was defensive now. "What do you lack? I've done everything I could to give you the life you deserve."

"Music! Raoul, I'm not a noblewoman, not a doll to be shown off! But I _am _a singer who misses the stage, the lights, the feeling of being _good_ at something! I can no longer shine with your borrowed light. I want to be something in my own right. Is that so much to ask?"

"You don't know what you are talking about," Raoul calmed down a little, convinced that she'd see the light yet. _I always suspected that Brooke woman would fill her head with nonsense_, he thought.

"Why do you assume that?" Christine snapped, truly roused now. "How do you know what I feel? Do you know, Raoul, sometimes I think you do not know me at all. You have created what you think I am in your mind and superimposed my appearance on her. But it isn't me! I want to reclaim myself."

"I shall not see the Chagny name thus sullied, and that is final."

"Haven't you sullied it already by marrying an _opera girl_?" Christine almost sneered at him. "Do you expect such phrases to open my eyes?" She raised a hand to prevent him from answering, opened her mouth to speak… shook her head and closed it again.

"You are tired from your journey, my dear. You need a few nights of good sleep. Why did you not rest instead of taking Gustave on that outing? Fouchert wasn't happy with you, you know. He believes it interferes with the boy's discipline, and privately I agree."

"I see." Christine rose. Raoul followed suit, approached her and kissed her hand. Wordlessly, she dropped a curtsy and left the speechless man staring at her retreating form.

Nothing changed in the household. A week after her arrival, Christine assumed her duties of hostess and escort. Not an evening went by without her entering a ballroom, dining room or drawing room on Raoul's arm, all smiles and sweetness. The tea she planned went by splendidly; all the ladies agreed that the Countess was a fine, well-bred woman. It was a pity that she had no claims of birth or consequence of her own, and yet, there could be no doubt as to her suitability to her current station in society.

Raoul himself was persuaded that the dark cloud had passed by completely. Christine made no mention of that unpleasant conversation. How could she possibly wish to return to that uncertain existence – constant rehearsals, petty arguments with conductors, and all the other inconveniences. Moreover, so far he had been confident that a certain person had cured her of singing for the rest of her life. Did she not realize that, as soon as she came to the stage, memories and ghosts will haunt her with fresh vigor.

Raoul would never be able to imagine just how much she longed to be haunted!


	12. Chapter 12

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Another week rolled by. Christine felt that Raoul was completely reassured. He was very satisfied – his mother liked the estate and the deal was speedily resolved. Madame la Comtesse – or la Comtesse Josephine, as she was more frequently known to distinguish her from her daughter-in-law, hosted a lavish housewarming supper that night. The Chagny clan was fairly small; only a few married cousins of various degrees could be procured, and so a few other choice families were honored with an invitation. It was quite splendid – Josephine's silver, crystal, and china were much admired. Christine did rather respect the woman's taste in house décor.

Josephine herself presided at the table – a stately, aristocratic woman. Through one set of grandparents or another, she was descended from the noblest bloodlines in France. Today she particularly shone in a black gown and a diamond parure. Christine often felt herself falling just short of the standard set by this woman. She supposed there was some credit due to the sayings _money can't buy everything_ and _noblesse oblige_. The elderly Countess carried the very _oblige_; not as a tiresome burden but as a crown.

After supper, when Raoul and Christine came to pay their respects and bid their adieux, Josephine addressed Raoul before he could even begin.

"Darling, would you speak to Mademoiselle Jeurat? She wanted to know whom you hired to find this place – she has a notion of renting a villa next summer. Christine will not be idle, that I promise you."

Raoul went in search of the abovementioned lady, while Josephine led Christine into a small, elegantly furnished tearoom. The glass door led to the rose garden, now covered in darkness. Dark-polished table was surrounded by chairs, and a tea for two was already served. Josephine invited the woman to choose a seat with a wave of her hand.

"I wanted us to have a private little get-together before you left," the hostess said good-naturedly. "Charlotte Jeurat will keep Raoul occupied for at least half an hour. In the meantime – " she poured out her famous tea, "we can discuss the reason you are so downcast tonight."

Christine blinked.

"Why, Maman, I am not downcast at all. Why would you think I was?"

"A few little things – things that, to your credit, nobody else, least of all my son - would have noticed. Things that feminine intuition senses at times. I've been feeling something coming on. Tell me, please."

Christine didn't know what to say. Josephine had always been good to her – ever since they were introduced a month before the wedding. She was one of precious few Chagnys who genuinely liked the new Countess and helped her along.

And now, she could be a valuable ally.

"Please, Maman, hear me out before judging me," she said in a calm tone. "I think… I think I cannot be a good wife to Raoul any longer… not the wife he deserves."

Josephine made no response.

"I want Raoul to be happy," Christine continued, "but that comes at a great personal cost. I respect him, but I cannot bear to be shown off like an expensive bauble! I am a performer, Maman, I hunger for the stage, for rehearsals, for the feeling of accomplishment. As things are now, I don't even get to be a mother to my son – Raoul and M. Fouchert manage Gustave perfectly well without me, it seems." Bitterness colored the last statement in spite of Christine's efforts.

Josephine rose and walked over to the door into the garden. Turning around, she looked directly into Christine's eyes.

"Ten years ago, I told Raoul this would happen. I wish he had listened to me."

Christine stared.

"I must explain myself," Josephine clarified, sitting back down at the tea table. "I've liked you very much from our very first meeting. You are a wonderful person – amiable, clever, talented – a true treasure for any man to call his wife. But I told him that you were not meant for him. You are too different; as any musician, you need to follow your art as an outlet. I told him that leaving the stage would eventually be very painful for you, but he wouldn't listen."

She sighed.

"Have you an offer to resume singing?"

"Yes, Maman, I have received one."

"Does Raoul know?"

"Yes, Maman."

"And he objects?"

"Yes, Maman."

"I will do all I can to help you, dear child. But your wish may come at a steep price. You see, the family name is as dear to me as it is to my son. A performing opera singer using it…"

"I was planning on using my maiden name, Maman."

"What if he gives you an ultimatum – singing or your marriage?"

"The only thing I'd ask him for is his permission to write to Gustave – and to visit him when I can."

"What if he refused?"

Christine looked around the room. She took a deep breath.

"I'd divorce him. I cannot bear living a lie any longer, Maman."

"I give you my word, child," Josephine said, approaching Christine and taking both her hands in her own, "that I'll do all in my power to help you while I live, even against my son's expressed wishes."

Christine thanked her with a long, steady look.

The next evening, Christine entered Raoul's study with the conviction of being right. Things could not go on like that any longer. She paused in the doorway - what a familiar scene! The room was plunged in semidarkness, except a golden circle of candlelight centered on the large desk. Raoul occupied his usual position, bent over papers which were supposedly very important. Well, so is the stage!

Christine cleared her throat. Raoul looked up.

"Ah, Christine, you startled me! Anything I can help you with, my love?" He rose, always the gentleman, and remained standing until she chose her own seat – a leather sofa outside the brightly lit sphere.

"I think there is something, Raoul," she said calmly. I came to speak to you about restoring my career as an opera singer."


	13. Chapter 13

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It was a mad scheme, every part of it. The madness began when he saw her in the auditorium. No, it began much earlier – when he first saw her. Any semblance of good sense left him then. Well, maybe not all at once. No, that was a bit of an exaggeration. But the trickle became a stream, then a river, and then, a waterfall, bearing his wits to be laid at her feet, on a sacrificial pyre. Perhaps, he had chosen the wrong opera for her debut at his theater. Perhaps, it should have been _Norma_[1]. Ah, the world of opera – any situation can be found in some work or other.

Erik paced the confined room. He hasn't been here for a little less than ten years – and by here, he meant Europe, France, Paris, this tiny street, and this inconspicuous house. He left in great hurry back then, and the place remained in his possession, with not a soul to look after it. No one, apart from himself, had known of its existence.

He had bought this house through an untraceable chain of middle-men about fifteen years ago, thinking that it wouldn't hurt to have headquarters above the ground, as well as below. One never _did_ know. Now, he mentally patted himself on the back for this foresight. It was nice, having this reliable safe-house.

When Christine talked so calmly about her husband permitting her to sing – or being prevailed upon to do it – back in his office, Erik did not believe a word of it. Or, rather, he highly doubted that the arrangement could be so easily achieved. The Count was bound to object – vehemently. If nothing else, he would object if he knew who his wife would be singing for. Erik had a lurking suspicion that Christine would conceal the identity of her employer at all costs.

He couldn't help following her – leaving New York a week after she left. Between John and Alfred, the music hall would be admirably cared for, and he did leave an emergency way to contact him, should anything go awry. But every cell in his body rebelled against the idea of letting Christine do battle with de Chagny alone. Because a battle it would be, whether she liked it or not.

He decided to have a look at the mansion – just in case. It so happened that he chose the day of Christine's outing with Gustave. Erik would never admit, least of all to himself, how well they looked, how well Christine looked in this, her most natural role – that of a mother. And how much it hurt, knowing that this boy – he would be fair and grudgingly admit that the boy was a fine one – wasn't his, could never be his. He, Erik, was here because his interests demanded it – he needed Christine the soprano.

But having Christine the woman – or, rather, her heart – wouldn't hurt, either.

Erik hadn't the first idea how he could help. Now that he thought about it, his arrival may have been unnecessary. What help could he give if the Count is guaranteed to object as soon as he suspects his involvement? Even so, it's better to keep an eye on Christine, to ensure that her husband does nothing untoward to prevent her from leaving. It will be a little more of a challenge – the opera house was under his complete control, while the same could not be said of the de Chagny mansion. Yet, as Erik had learned long ago, nothing was impossible with some money, ingenuity and luck. His plans were as yet half-formed and tentative, but the goal – the one which beckoned to him through the years – was worth any sacrifices. He drew his cloak about him and went off into the night. The wheels were set into motion.

Raoul stared at his wife. Her face was obscured by shadows, but the one thing he could see clearly in every line of her face and posture troubled him. Determination.

"I thought we have reached an agreement on that score," he said wearily. His day was a long one; politicians and businessmen were to be met with and appeased. What happened to his right to leisure?

"We haven't agreed, Raoul," Christine replied evenly. "You expressed your distaste for the idea, that was all."

"I thought you'd understand," he said, shifting papers out of the way. "I thought you'd see the numerous reasons why it would be ill-advised – imprudent – unwise" – his every word stung Christine with a dull pain – "for you to pursue that… whim of yours."

_Whim?_

"I beg your pardon, but I do not see a _single_ reason not to sing."

"Don't you? Christine, how can you wish to return to the stage after what happened – what made you leave it in the first place?"

"Things have changed."

_I became wiser. I grew up._

"Christine, whatever you believe, I am certain that, as soon as you step on a stage, you will recall some of the least pleasant times of your life. Those memories did not disappear; they will return."

"That may be, and yet I'm determined to sing."

"Dear, you haven't so much as an offer. Are you going to go around opera houses _seeking employment_?" Raoul's tone removed all doubts of his disgust.

"As a matter of fact, I _do _have an offer." Christine had the satisfaction of seeing her husband positively blanch.

"Where… how… did you get it?" Raoul was gasping the words out; his shock was clear.

"I was asked to sing at a gathering," Christine said, trying to twist the truth as little as possible. "A gentleman who wants to… start producing operas at a little music hall he owns heard me and… thought I was what he needed. He made me an offer."

"Really, Christine," Raoul commented in a scathing tone, "to agree to perform for some inexperienced youth, a nouveau riche without a shred of…"

"He is quite a bit older than myself and has… considerable experience in opera." Christine wished she could permit herself to chuckle.

"Oh? And what is the name of this personage?"

"A Mr. Mueller."

"Fascinating. I told you before, and I'll say it now – I will not have my name associated with performances."

"There is a simple solution, is there not? I am willing to give up your name and sully my own."

A moment of ringing silence followed this calm suggestion.

"You would give up ten years of marriage – and a _child_ to _sing_?" Raoul pronounced each syllable with slow, deliberate clarity, as though speaking to a very naughty child.

"Ten years of being enslaved – and a child who does not belong to me? Yes, I'll give them up – or, rather, the former – I will insist on seeing Gustave regularly. I will come down during summer to see him."

"I will not permit it. No one in their right mind would permit their son to be seen by an undutiful mother."

"Undutiful?" Christine spat. "How dare you? I spend every minute I can with him – granted, it isn't much, since either he is with his tutor or I am with you, charming the people you need to be successful! And, for your information, Maman approves!" She laid down her last trump card with a sense of triumph; Raoul revered his mother.

"Maman _knows_?" Was it possible to look more shocked?

"Yes."

The Count circled his desk.

"I must consider it," he said, ice dripping from every word. "A divorce – such infamy – leave me, please."

Christine left without objection. She did give him one last hard look before closing the door.

[1] Norma – an opera by Bellini, in which the title heroine is a Druidic priestess. She engages in a secret love affair and is punished by being burned, along with her lover.


	14. Chapter 14

14

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_I would never have believed it – having to sneak out of my own house!_

Christine was smarting. She did have to go through a side door to leave the grand mansion. It seemed that, before leaving shortly after breakfast to call on his mother, Raoul had instructed the servants to keep an eye on Madame la Comtesse. The curious glances her maids gave her when they watched her put on a cloak made Christine certain that was the case. But she needed a walk – to refresh her mind, to think. She could think of a few places that could be accomplished.

Hiring a coach felt so comforting, somehow. It reminded her of being younger, dreamier, more hopeful. As buildings whizzed past, she remembered more and more – every detail of a forgotten routine, every brush stroke on the painting of her life. The once bright colors had faded.

Papa brought her to the opera house. He must have felt that his health could not hold up much longer. And he must have seen that his daughter had seedlings of a talent. He had wanted to get her into chorus, so that the little girl could have singing lessons, but there were no auditions. Christine became a ballet student instead. She had no particular talent or inclination for the art, but she had skill and determination to supply the lack of other things. Papa wanted her here and here she would be, come what may.

Barely two months after settling his daughter at the opera house, her father died. Christine thought she had never felt so thoroughly alone, before or since. The ballet mistress accompanied her to the funeral. The severe woman whom Christine had secretly feared before held the small, trembling hand of the little orphan, and her face suddenly seemed a tad softer and more human.

_There. We stood right here_, Christine thought, gazing on her father's grave. That was her first stop today. The coachman was waiting beyond the cemetery gates – he was well paid for his trouble. And the woman stood on the spot she occupied so many years ago as a little girl.

That was when Madame Giry became more than a teacher. She took the little Daae girl under her wing. That was not a position to be envied, however, as she became still more demanding. Christine was scolded and snapped at as much as any other girl, but the evenings always compensated all of it. Christine, Madame Giry and her daughter Meg would drink tea, and talk, and the girls would laugh, and be a family. Germaine would watch the children with a tired but contented face and think that it would be nice if all children in the world could find a tea table to call their own.

* * *

Christine now stood before the restored and renamed opera house. Opera Garnier. That's what they call her home now. New people populate it now – artists, singers, dancers, managers. They had brought their own ghosts with them. The cellars have been uninhabited for years now.

She stands on the opposite side of the street from the main entrance. The ghosts of the past have been expelled.

Ghosts or guardian angels?

She doesn't know

She scans the crowd. People walk so purposefully. They all had places to be.

Now she does too – across an ocean from here. If only she could cross the blue expanse purely by inclination. But she must end things here first. She must be free and unencumbered. She was sure that she'd succeed.

Christine was in a daze, lost in her thoughts and suppositions. She saw nothing and no one around her. A powerful need to approach the dear, hated building across the street overpowered her. She moved slowly and deliberately. As the toe of her left shoe touched the cobblestones of the main road, she paid no heed to the motorcar that was coming around the corner. All she saw was the stately home of her soul. She did, however, hear a female shriek of horror, and a man's voice exclaiming "To your right, Madame, look to your right!" And she did look, and it seemed like too much to see the terror in the eyes of the driver. And then she was hoisted backward, and then darkness came – a black, comforting sort of darkness, which embraced her warmly and gently, like a dearly missed soulmate.

* * *

_Pat, pat, pat – whose palm is this? So cool and refreshing. I must have hit my head, after all – how can a palm be refreshing? Why did I fall in the first place? Oh, what a spectacle I made…_

Christine opened her eyes slowly and unwillingly. Nothing could be distinguished in this darkness. She blinked a few times, trying to focus her eyes. Still, anything that surrounded her was concealed – and well.

"Foolish girl," an exasperated voice reverberated around her. "Haven't you been taught to cross the street? I've had a better opinion of Germaine's upbringing."

Christine's heart seemed to restart with the shock of hearing that voice. In retrospect, she would come to the conclusion that there was all the logic in the world in the identity of her savior.

* * *

Erik couldn't help visiting his old home – or prison. At first, he thought he wouldn't, but his curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to see the new opera house – the one cleansed of ghosts and ghouls. He looked at it from a shady colonnade across the street. All in all, the restoration seemed satisfactory enough. Much better than what he had expected, at any rate. If _he_ were involved, now…

His musings on the appropriateness of the new statue to the left of the main entrance were interrupted by a woman who exited a cab at the corner. She was rather inconspicuous-looking – of average height, wrapped in a midnight blue cloak, from the drawn hood of which protruded a small straw hat. Something in her walk and carriage, however, captured his attention – only one woman could move like that, almost gliding across the dull gray pavement. He was sure he knew who she might be. As a meeting was not in his plans, Erik retreated further into the shadow.

He watched her with the same hunger as always. When she could not be seen, the hunger could be cajoled into a dull, constant ache. But in moments like this it tore the shackles off and could be felt in all its potency. Every detail was captivating, inescapable. And now, she stood right in front of him, and yet completely unaware of him. What were her thoughts as she gazed at that building that evidently attracted both of them? Was she begging for a revival… or a release?

_What is she thinking?_ This wasn't curiosity – it was an internal scream! He watched her move towards the edge of the sidewalk in mute disbelief. As the automobile came towards her, disguise was abandoned. As though pushed by invisible force, Erik closed the small distance between them and snatched her out of the vehicle's way. Before any spectators could focus their attention on all the motion of the scene, the dark whirlwind was gone, and so was the poor lady.

Erik had the time to reflect that whisking the woman away from under the noses of a large crowd was developing into a rather strange habit with him.


	15. Chapter 15

15

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Christine felt a little disoriented, and the darkness did not help. She found herself wondering whether she wasn't simply suspended in this space, floating with no anchor. No, that wasn't right; there was an anchor, this man sitting a few feet away from her. God knows how he got there…

"What are you doing here?" she asked, trying to sit up.

"Not what I expected, Madame la Comtesse," he responded in the same exasperated voice. "My sightseeing tour was interrupted in a most unexpected fashion. Have you become so weary of life?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Christine answered, slightly offended by his light tone. "I simply wasn't paying attention… They did a fine job restoring the Opera, didn't they?" It was a futile attempt to distract him.

"Wasn't paying attention?" Erik spat. "Have you any idea what state you'd be in if I wasn't there?"

"Dead, quite possibly."

"I am relieved to see that that fact has no effect on you whatsoever," he replied sarcastically. "Never liked the faint of heart. I must warn you – if we ever get as far as an official contract, one of the stipulations will be a personal guard for you. I won't hire a soprano who can get herself killed so easily. It's a horrible investment." Christine could easily see his purpose; he was shaken himself and tried to siphon the emotions off as sarcasm.

"Very well. It won't be long now. Raoul is… displeased with my plans, but his mother isn't. She is a very useful ally. She'll persuade him yet."

"I see."

"And I've been practicing a little," Christine added, allowing herself a little smile. "I think I have all of my solos memorized. The duets are challenging to practice alone, but I've been trying my best."

"And your husband approves?"

"If he knew, he probably wouldn't have," Christine replied briefly.

They sat in amicable silence. Christine was shocked at the lack of any negative feelings. She was as comfortable as one could be inside a…

"Where are we exactly?" she asked conversationally.

"Under the Opera, of course. I thought it was the nearest and the most convenient place. No one will look for anyone down here. We are in one of the passageways leading to my old home."

Christine nodded.

"I have been considering one aspect of our situation," Erik began again. "Does the Count know who is employing you?"

"He has been told about a Mr. Mueller."

Silence fell upon them again.

"What if he guesses?"

"I don't think it'll take him much longer," Christine said, carefully choosing her words. "Right now he thinks I am too frightened and repelled to ever wish to see you again… if you are still alive, that is. But he may guess – and if he does, I won't lie."

"He'll never permit it if he guesses."

"I hope to be divorced by then. He'll have no right to stop me."

"He didn't have that right the first time around."

"No," Christine agreed. "But he felt that, with Father dead, he was the next of kin in a way. He felt responsible for my safety. He couldn't have known that I had no need of defense."

"Do you believe that yourself?" Erik's voice was cautious.

"I do now. I have grown wiser – the years weren't wasted on me, Erik. I see things very differently now. I made all the… wrong choices." She wished she could see him, but the darkness was too thick.

"How do you feel now?" His tone was businesslike.

"Rather well, I think."

"Good. You must return. You'll be missed at home, no doubt."

Christine knew he was right. She stumbled to her feet.

"Are you dizzy?" The concern in his voice touched her deeply.

"No, I don't think so." Christine straightened herself out and blindly brushed her skirt off as best she could. Then she faced the direction in which she supposed Erik to be.

"Will you kindly lead me out then? I do not know the way."

"As you wish, Madame." His voice came from behind. Christine felt a hesitating hand touch her elbow.

They were out soon – much too soon. Erik stayed long enough to see her hail a cab. Very few insignificant civilities passed their lips. The last communication between them was Erik's cold, formal bow.

* * *

Christine paced her sitting room. It had been forty minutes since Raoul's carriage drove up to the front door. She felt this waiting as a deliberate insult. Was it necessary to show off his superiority in this fashion?

She understood that it wasn't an easy situation for him, either. For ten years they had enjoyed a cloudless marriage – in his eyes, at least. They had been the perfect family, the perfect hosts, leaders of the fashionable set. It had been a great achievement for them to live down Christine's humble beginnings; eventually, she had proven herself more than equal to that challenge.

And now – divorce!

Christine was deep in thought when Bernard, Raoul's butler, came in. He had to clear his throat before the Mistress's eyes focused on him.

"Monsieur le Comte begs Madame la Comtesse to join him in his study."

"Thank you, Bernard, I'll be there presently."

She came into the study not five minutes later. The room was basking in the warm glow of the setting sun. Everything was a deep, pleasant amber color. Raoul stood beside a window, twirling a pen between his fingers.

"Do sit down," he said amicably. Nothing in his demeanor was out of the ordinary. That alarmed Christine even more. She sat down.

"Before I tell you what I must, I have a question or two," the Count continued. "This man, your employer… what did you say his name was?"

"Mr. Mueller," the woman responded, quite calm.

"And you met him at a party?"

"Yes."

"And he could tell your voice was just what he needed from just one little aria?"

Christine shrugged.

"It sounds almost as though he knew ahead of time what you were capable of," Raoul said nonchalantly. "Almost as if he knew your abilities and limits beforehand." He turned to face her.

"Are you ready to tell me who this man is? Or do I need to give you more hints?"

Christine could see that somehow, inexplicably, he knew. She had thought he'd guess that there was only one person who could lure her back on stage, only one man under whose guidance she'd place herself. But this was an unexpectedly quick solution.

"Yes, it's _him_." It was a brusque statement. She was surprised by how easily the words came.

"You must wonder at my perception. You see, my dear, we have a guest." Raoul waved his hand in the direction of the door to the library. Christine's gaze shifted following the movement.

Erik stood in the doorway.


	16. Chapter 16

16

This chapter is longer than average, because I felt that breaking the scenes into two chapters was inadvisable. Thank you for the kind reviews! NOTE: I do not own anything that you recognize – Faust, for instance.

Christine felt that it was high time to learn that nothing is either too wonderful or too terrible to be true.

Her eyes moved between the two men, both of whom dictated her life for twenty years. Raoul looked angry and on edge. Erik looked as if nothing about this situation worried him in the least.

She let out a long relieving sigh.

"I suppose you thought that the real identity of your employer was too minor a detail."

"I did not lie to you. I said his name was Mr. Mueller and it is."

"You know what I mean!" Raoul seethed.

"I do, and this is precisely why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd refuse point blank."

"Of course I would! Need I remind you why? Need I remind you how he very nearly killed us both?"

"He would never have touched a hair on my head." Christine said. She spoke quietly, but the conviction with which she said it caused Raoul to straighten with an almost audible snap – he had been bending over her, speaking directly into her face. Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw Erik watch the scene with intense concentration.

_If his eyes could burn, Raoul would be a pile of ash_, she reflected.

"Perhaps," Raoul said, starting to pace before her. "But think of what he had done! Buquet! Piangi! Carlotta – he could have killed her next! And he appears to have positively bewitched you..!" He appeared to run out of air.

"I seem to recall you saying – you yourself! – that he was nothing but a man!" Christine smirked as Raoul smarted at his own words. "Bewitched, indeed – I'm not denying it, but not in the sense you mean!"

Another shocked silence.

"And, if I may remind you, you'd never have noticed me if it hadn't been for him! If he hadn't forced the managers to give me the lead in _Hannibal_, you would never have noticed a corps de ballet girl! It's the soprano – a leading soprano, no less, that you paid attention to!'

This time it was Erik's face that nearly caused Christine to laugh. Mask or no mask, his eyes and mouth displayed the sort of disgusted disbelief she could imagine him feeling were he told that he did _anything_ to push Christine into the then Vicomte's path.

"That's what I am, Raoul! A soprano! A performer! Not a noblewoman! Not a hostess! Not an appendage to anybody! And if I ever wish for a husband, I will be wiser this time – I shall find a man who, when we are at home and alone, will not hide in his study pretending to be busy, but will belong to _me_!"

Raoul and Erik were both motionless. Christine, on the other hand, sprang from her seat and approached her husband. Up to now, she was afraid of angering him too much, and now she felt as if there was nothing left to lose. Raoul knew everything. And, most importantly, she was now under the greatest protection possible. No one would rule her life now, except the one she wanted to rule it. He was here, watching over her, as he was all those years ago. While it was convenient for the youngest son of the Comte de Chagny to forget the little lonely orphan, her angel watched over her tirelessly, bringing her up as much as Madame Giry did. He taught her to see and listen for beauty in the least likely places, under the most varied guises.

"I was all alone – and seven, _seven_, Raoul! My father, the sun around which my universe revolved, lay dead! All I had was a little bed in the opera house dormitory! But eventually, there was more! There was Madame Giry – and him!" She pointed her slender finger in Erik's direction.

"He taught me! He spoke to me! He comforted me – don't scoff, he did! His voice would say the things I needed to hear – and with what sincerity! Believe it or not, he _was_ my angel!" All this time, she circled Raoul, who looked dumbfounded.

Ringing silence!

"You cannot believe that you can sing after ten years of silence." Raoul said hoarsely.

"That is no concern of yours, Monsieur," Erik said – so smoothly that Christine wondered if the heated scene before was a dream. "_That_ is _my_ province, and I guard it more jealously than any other. Christine," he said, turning to face the woman, "you said you've been practicing?"

"Yes, Maestro." Christine had no idea what had made her say it, but the word suddenly drew an invisible cord between them. She called him that – and Angel – when they were only a teacher and a student… But no, they were never only that. She looked into his eyes and saw that he felt it too.

"Prove it." Raoul's voice was an unwelcome intrusion that snapped them both out of this momentary reverie.

"Prove _what_, Monsieur?" Erik's voice was becoming dangerously low. Christine thought she knew why. Raoul was questioning Erik's judgment, expertise and teaching – and her voice. Knowing Erik, one had to wonder which of those offended him more. "Prove that Madame can sing? I thought you'd know by now that she can – and superbly too… however," he relished the insulted look on Raoul's face "if we move this to a room with a piano, I would be _more than pleased_ to offer you the proof you so crave!"

They made a curious trio – Christine, leading the way to her sitting room, Erik following closely behind, and Raoul, angry and disgruntled. As they entered the blue salon, Christine could feel Erik's eyes explore her domain. Almost immediately, he made his way to the table littered with music.

"Amusing, isn't it?" he said, gazing at the titles. Everything we have rehearsed – _Nozze_, indeed! Over my dead body will you sing Mozart. He doesn't fit your talent."

_I was always here_, he thought in shock. Slightly distracted, Erik did not see that Christine already stood by the piano. Her polite cough warned him of the necessity to turn around.

"What shall I sing?" she asked him.

"Why don't we revive the Jewel Song[1]?" he asked.

The music carried her, as if in a trance across time and space. She began singing just standing by the piano, but then the music became jollier and lighter, and Christine began to move, as if on stage. Her hands flew about, practicing the gestures she would make. That was another thing Erik had taught her – to constantly search for the right gesture.

As the song ended, she looked at Erik as surreptitiously as she could. His fingers were still over the keys, frozen in position, but his eyes shone and his lips were stretched into a satisfied… half-smile.

"You _have_ been practicing, my dear," he said in a voice that made her feel warm. Then he turned to face Raoul. "Her voice has matured, just as I've always wanted it to. I tell you, had the best theaters in the world had the chance to engage her, they would. Now," he continued, looking back at Christine, "shall we have a duet – just to relieve Monsieur of his doubts?"

"The finale of _Faust[2]_?"

Without a word, Erik proceeded to play the opening notes. Christine sang with all the soul she possessed, determined to achieve perfection. It became a true dialogue between them, so appropriate were the words of the piece she deliberately chose. Despite knowing how Erik detested any alteration from the original creation, she did make one change – she used the singular, _Angel_, instead of the plural.

Raoul had obviously had enough.

"Very well," he snapped. "If it is your ambition to sing for this…" he seemed to be at a loss for a term vile enough, "you may have your divorce. My mother insisted on your being allowed to see the child – but I insist on either her or my permission and presence at all times. You are not to come to Paris without notifying me in advance. I that satisfies hope you! The notary will be here tomorrow – you may witness it if you wish!" Having spat the latter sentence at Erik, Raoul turned on his heels and slammed the door behind himself as he left.

[1] I cannot get too far from the original, can I? This comes from Gounod's _Faust_, and the translation is: But what's this?/Where might this rich casket have come from?/I don't dare touch it, and yet.../Here is the key, I think!/If I just opened it!/My hand trembles...why, now?/I shouldn't think that opening/it could do any harm.../Oh Lord! What jewels!/Is some sweet dream/deceiving me, or am I awake?/I've never laid eyes on/such richness!/If only I dared/to put on for a moment/these earrings!/Why, here at the bottom/of the casket there is even/a mirror!...How could anyone/resist playing the coquette?/Ah! I laugh to see myself/so pretty in this mirror!/Is it you, Marguerite?/Answer me, answer quickly!/No, no, it is not you!/That is no longer your face!/It is some king's daughter/you bow to as she passes!/If only he were here!/If he could see me like this!/He would think me beautiful,/dressed as a young lady!/Let us complete the transformation!/I have yet to try on/the bracelet and the necklace./Lord, it is as if a hand/were weighing down my arm!/Ah! I laugh to see myself, etc

[2] If the following scene seems familiar, it is because you've seen the 1990 Charles Dance adaptation, which is magnificent. Watch it – it's on YouTube. The lyrics are below. As we have no baritone, I deleted Mephistopheles' lines accordingly.

[FAUST] My heart is overcome with terror./O torment! /O wellspring of regrets and eternal remorse!/'Tis she, here she is, the sweet creature,/Thrown in the depths of a prison/Like some base criminal!/Despair drove her into madness!/Her poor child, O God, she killed it!/Marguerite!  
[MARGUERITE]Ah, this is my beloved's voice!/His call has revived my heart.  
[FAUST]Marguerite!  
[MARGUERITE]Amidst your peals of laughter,/Demons that surround me, /I have recognized his voice.  
[FAUST]Marguerite!  
[MARGUERITE]His hand, his gentle hand draws me!/I am free. He has come!/I hear him! I see him!/Yes, here you are! I love you!/My fetters, Death himself/No longer scare me!/Now I am safe!/Here you are!/I rest on your heart!  
[FAUST]Yes, here I am! I love you!/Despite even the efforts/Of the jeering demon,/I have found you!/Now you are safe!/Here I am!/Come, rest on my heart!/  
[MARGUERITE]Wait. Here is the street/Where you saw me/For the first time!/Where your hand almost dared/Brush against my fingers:/"My lovely young lady, will you not allow me/To offer you my arm and escort you on your way?"/"No thank you, sir; I am neither a lady, nor lovely,/And I really have no need for a supporting arm".  
[FAUST]Yes, my heart remembers./But come with me! Time flies!  
[MARGUERITE]And here is the delightful garden,/Fragrant with myrtle and roses,/Which every evening, stealthily,/You entered once night had fallen.  
[FAUST]Come, come, Marguerite!  
[MARGUERITE]No!  
[FAUST]Come, come, let's escape!  
[MARGUERITE]No, remain awhile!  
[FAUST]O heavens, she does not hear me.  
[MARGUERITE]The devil, the devil! Can you see him, there, in the dark!/Staring at us with his eyes of fire!/What does he want with us?/Drive him from the holy place!  
[MARGUERITE]Dear God, protect me!/Dear God, I beseech you!  
[FAUST]Come! Let us flee!/We may still have time!  
[MARGUERITE]Pure and radiant angels,/Carry my soul up to heaven!/God of justice, I give myself up to you!/God of mercy, I am yours, forgive!  
[FAUST]Come, follow me, come I say!  
[MARGUERITE]Pure and radiant angels/Carry my soul up to heaven!

[FAUST]Come, follow me!  
[MARGUERITE]God of justice, I give myself up to you!/God of mercy, I am yours, forgive!  
[FAUST]Come, follow me, come I say!/Come! Let us leave this place!/The sky grows light already!/Come, you must obey my bidding!/The sky grows light already!  
[MARGUERITE]Pure and radiant angels,/Carry my soul up to heaven!  
[FAUST]Marguerite!  
[MARGUERITE]Why does your eye threaten?  
[FAUST]Marguerite.  
[MARGUERITE]Why are those hands red with blood?/Go away! You fill me with horror!


	17. Chapter 17

17

Thank you for reviewing – please continue to do so!

No, it was decidedly too strange to see Erik in her sitting room, with the background of blue silk, sitting at her pristine white piano. It was too strange to see the stark contrast between his black attire and the bright and clean colors of his surroundings. It was the visual representation of the choice she had made.

"I suppose I have just become a sounder investment," she said, her voice half amusement, half wonder.

"Not until it is legal," Erik said. His tone was completely unconcerned. He rose.

"Before you leave," Christine said, turning away from the window to face him, "I would very much appreciate it if you explained your appearance. I'm intrigued."

"Must I?"

"I can't force you," Christine said reasonably, "but I would appreciate it if you obliged me."

"I suppose I ought to satisfy my diva from time to time," Erik said humorlessly. He walked towards the marble fireplace and surveyed the china figurines artfully positioned around a gilded clock. "After we parted this morning, I took the liberty to make myself known to the Count. We met about halfway between the house of la Comtesse his mother and this… charming abode. I made it clear that a prolonged conversation was highly advisable. He cordially invited me to make a call."

"I can imagine." Christine said, her amusement rather poorly disguised.

"I arrived two hours ago," he continued conversationally. "The Count and I spoke, as I wished, and the latest half hour or so is the result."

Christine nodded.

"I shall take the liberty of calling again tomorrow," Erik said. "I wish to ensure that the divorce is… signed into law, if you will." He produced a small card and indicated that Christine should take it. "Will you be so good as to send me word about the time at this address?"

Christine took the card and murmured her assent.

"Thank you," he said. He was gone after a courteous bow.

* * *

Raoul did not come down to dinner that night. Christine was not surprised in the least. Instead, she asked M. Fouchert to bring Gustave down to share her meal. It was ridiculous that they should do it so infrequently. But children should be seen and not heard, and good aristocratic boys should eat with their tutors in the nursery. Not tonight.

Dinner was served in the family dining room on the second floor. Here Christine and Raoul ate on the rare occasions when no company was present. Gustave was seated immediately to her right. When the servant left, Christine addressed her son gently:

"Have you seen your father today?"

"Yes, Mother," the boy replied solemnly.

"Has he told you any news?"

"Yes, Mother – he said you were leaving us." The boy gave her a fleeting look.

"I need you to understand, Gustave," Christine said urgently. "I am leaving because I want to sing on the stage, like I used to. But I'll come to see you – and I'll write – every week! Will you answer me?" Her tone was pleading.

"Yes, Mother, I will," he said, brushing a tear away. Christine jumped up and clutched her son in a sideways embrace. He buried his face in her chest.

"You won't forget me, will you, darling?" she asked in a trembling voice. Her cheeks were wet.

"No – but don't forget me either, Mother," he said.

"I could never do that, little one."

"I would so much love to see you on stage, Mother."

"You will one day, I promise." Whatever it took.

"Father said you were doing a cruel thing to him and to me."

"Do you agree with him, my little one?"

"I don't know… If you want to sing, shouldn't you be able to?" He swallowed. "Just please, write to me."

"I will, darling."

* * *

She was waylaid by Raoul on her way to the apartment she had occupied for ten years.

"Can we talk, please?"

She agreed. He looked reasonable.

They made it back to his study.

"Christine, please," he said, closing the door behind them softly. "Please don't do this to our family."

She turned to face him. Raoul looked pleading, contrite. "What can I do to dissuade you?"

"I am afraid there's nothing, Raoul," Christine said quietly. "I am not the woman you deserve. I am very sorry it took us this long to realize it."

"But I love you," he said wit conviction.

"No, Raoul," she shook her head with a smile. "You love Little Lotte. That isn't me – hasn't been since we were children. Surely you can see that?"

"And… _him_? Do you love _him_?"

Christine thought she ought to tread carefully.

"I do not know myself," she said. "I have to understand him all anew – he isn't quite as he was before.

Raoul obviously did not believe her.

"Think, Christine! You'll be at his mercy again – don't you see? He'll take you over, just as before. What will you do? How will you escape?"

"I am not so naïve anymore; I can put up a fight. Just let me go." Her voice was calm.

"You'll regret it," Raoul said quietly. "But on your own head be it. The notary will be here tomorrow at noon." His manner was cold.

* * *

Christine rang for Marie as soon as she closed the door of her bedroom. While waiting, she sat at her writing desk and penned two short notes, folding and sealing them in the end. By now, Marie stood next to the desk.

"Marie, give this to Remy. Have them delivered personally to these people tonight. It's urgent. Then come back here."

The maid left with a curtsy. Christine went to her dressing room.

Quickly and efficiently she sorted through her jewelry chest, separating her personal collection from the items that belonged to the Chagny estate. The latter would be returned to Josephine. Once that was done, the woman extracted an old suitcase from the depth of the closet and looked it over thoughtfully. Ten years ago its contents were her dowry. She packed some appropriate items of clothing and her personal belongings. A knock on the door told her that Marie was back.

"Come in," she said.

It was Marie, indeed.

"Take a seat, Marie. And listen carefully. You may have heard through the servants that I am to be divorced from Monsieur. It is true. I will return to New York immediately."

"Will you take me with you, Madame?" Marie asked calmly.

"Would you like to go?"

"I would wish to follow you, Madame, and be of use to you."

Christine couldn't help a tear.

"Good, faithful Marie, you will be of more use to me if you stay. I will ask Monsieur to assign you to care for my son – help M. Fouchert. You will ensure that our letters reach us – you'll be our communication channel, so to speak. You will also write to me about my boy – how he is, and so on. Will you?"

Marie agreed. She was a devoted servant to her mistress. Her family had served the Counts de Chagny for several generations, and Madame Josephine personally chose Marie to wait on the new Countess. As there were only two years of age difference between them, a deep mutual affection did not hesitate to develop. Now, Marie could feel the great trust Madame invested in her, by asking her to care for her little son. Marie would do her utmost to help.


	18. Chapter 18

18

Many thanks for the wonderful comments – please keep telling me what you think. A word of warning; I go back to college on Thursday, so this will probably be updated every two weeks and not one. Rest assured I will not abandon it.

Morning dawned, fresh and cool. Christine woke at the usual seven-thirty. She smiled as she considered the need to revive her old custom of waking at six for rehearsals. Very soon she will be a busy woman once again.

At eight she entered the breakfast parlor, expecting to eat in silent solitude. But Raoul was there, as always; as always, he rose from his seat when she entered. Their greetings were cordial enough.

"You are still resolved?" he asked.

She nodded.

"In that case, I ask you to look this over." It was their divorce agreement. Christine read it carefully. Apart from his stipulations from yesterday, it decreed that, by divorcing him, she forfeited any right to inherit any of Raoul's property once he died. She shrugged it off.

"I would like to suggest an additional clause," she said and briefly told him of her desire for Marie to care for Gustave.

Raoul agreed. Marie was an old and trusted servant, favored by his own mother. There would be no harm in that. He obligingly added the clause.

Finally, Christine informed him that, in order to make a clean break, she would leave his house directly after the papers were signed. She added only that he did not need to worry about her being homeless.

Promptly at noon there was a small gathering in Raoul's study. A slightly bemused-looking notary stood before a folding desk which bore the fatal document. Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse stood in front of him, and an odd masked man hovered nearby. The Count signed with a falsely steady hand, while the woman was very prompt. After producing the signature, she removed her wedding ring and placed it on top of the paper. The notary looked the paper over and said:

"I beg your pardon, but there must be a signature of a witness. Otherwise this may be challenged in court."

Christine thought it very ironic when she, her former husband, and the notary all looked at Erik at the same time. _Fate had a wicked sense of humor_, she reflected, watching Erik shrug, approach the table, and sign his chosen name with a flourish. She noticed Raoul's scowl which appeared as soon as Erik did, grow even more pronounced. Erik, however, was not finished just yet. As the notary rose to collect the papers, he spoke for the first time since offering a succinct greeting to his hosts.

"If you can spare a moment, sir, and if _Miss Daae_ poses no objection, there is another document I would like to be made official."

Christine was torn between wishing to shake her head and burst out laughing. She watched as Erik produced a sheet of paper covered with writing.

"Your contract, Miss Daae," he said, placing it before her.

Christine bent over to read. It was a rather standard arrangement as far as she could tell. When she got to the promised compensation, however, she felt faint. No singer ever asked for a _quarter_ of the price. The contract held her to ten performances of _La boheme_, but presupposed extension and further engagements.

Christine looked at Erik, meaning to argue that the price was ridiculously high, but was met with a steady gaze.

He would accept no arguments.

She gave a small shrug and signed.

* * *

About forty minutes later, she was handed out of a hired cab by Erik. In his own manner, he made it clear that he meant to see precisely where she was to stay. To his surprise, the building they alighted at was not entirely unfamiliar. Christine did not know it, but he had once spent over two weeks hidden away inside.

"Dear Madame left me the key before she disappeared with Meg," Christine explained, unlocking the door to the small apartment. "It's as if she knew I would need it one day."

_Or maybe she hoped I would._

The three rooms showed signs of being uninhabited. White fabric covered the furniture and all the drapes were drawn, creating a mysterious sort of twilight. The neat woman even draped the mirrors on the walls.

Christine let the light in by pulling open the curtains and uncovered two chairs, motioning her companion to sit down. He obliged. She made to sit down as well, but then, remembering herself, walked over to the pegs near the entrance and began to unbutton her coat and gloves and unpin her hat. Her movements were simple, completely devoid of planning; yet Erik felt a distinct pang of jealousy towards the happy men who could watch their wives do that every day for countless years. They even took moments like these for granted! Did they not know how precious they really were?

But then, one never values what one has when one has it…

"I was thinking," Christine said, sitting down on the second chair. "I ought to go buy a ticket – to go back."

"No need," Erik said curtly, producing an envelope and handing it to her. She raised an eyebrow, but opened it all the same. It was a ticket for a vessel that left next week.

"I took the liberty to purchase it this morning," he shrugged.

Christine couldn't speak, but the look in her eyes was rather eloquent.

* * *

Christine lay in bed, thinking. What will life be like now? She would live in New York, with occasional visits to France. She would find a small snug apartment and devote herself to music. She would once again be under the guidance of her teacher, even though that was all he'd ever

For, as she tried to convey her gratitude for his continuous care, his eyes suddenly grew cold. She barely had the time to say good bye before he left after that. What had she done? Of course, he couldn't have forgiven her for the past – for leaving.

_But you were the one to ultimately leave!_ she thought furiously. He _was_, he just didn't know it…

She turned over to face the wall – and the memory of ten years ago.

_The rain was so thick she could barely see five feet ahead. Gray sky pressed down on her, and the passersby looked like black shadows. But she knew the way, and her goal that evening was one of the utmost importance._

_Tomorrow she was to be married to Raoul, her dear childhood friend. The thought filled her with the coldest fear. She couldn't go through with it; she couldn't betray herself and _him _so thoroughly. She would go to _him_, beg his forgiveness and dedicate her life to _him_ and_ his_ music. As _he _always meant that she should._

_She reached the opera house quickly enough. The damage done was truly ghastly. Her heart ached to see _his_ creation in shambles. But she must hurry._

_Down, down, down! Will the corridors never end? Cold, dark corridors, so frightening without _his_ guiding hand. How could _he_ live here, all alone? But no longer._

_Crossing the lake in a boat she and Raoul had left behind was easy enough. Oddly, it seemed to be in a different place from where they left it. But she couldn't trust her memory of that night; she was too distressed._

_She reached _his_ home and entered quietly. Knowing _him_, she made straight to his music room._

_Eventually, she searched the whole house. Her heart bled at the destruction of _his _world._

_She called out into the dark._

_She begged _him_ to show himself._

_But _he_ was gone._

_And eight hours later, Raoul put a ring on her finger._


	19. Chapter 19

19

Here's the new chapter! Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! To make this story a bit more real, I have created a playlist on my YouTube account [theblacksister] without the brackets that contains ALL of the arias mentioned in the text. If you wish to comment, send me a message either here or on YT, as none of those are uploaded by me. I am planning to upload the entire _La boheme_ into a separate playlist (by the time this is posted, it is partially up already). Even if you don't like opera, give it a shot – it may make the reading of a certain next chapter much clearer. Hope you enjoy!

This crossing was just as calm as the first. The ship pulled into the harbor with an odd sort of grace. Christine descended quickly, happy to be on stationary ground. She only had the small suitcase in hand: she did not wish to do any shopping in Paris and risk seeing some ladies of her acquaintance who were sure to ask questions.

Christine moved through the crowd very deliberately. Erik instructed her to look for a familiar face. She supposed that one of the theater employees she had met would be meeting her today. If only Erik had been more explicit… but expecting him to be explicit was just as wise as expecting to see sun at midnight.

He had seen her off in France. She was deeply grateful for the sense of security his presence provided. Nothing ill could befall her while his dark figure was nearby. Christine may have put a brave face on, but the dissolution of her marriage took a toll on her. It wasn't easy to give an arrangement of ten years' duration up, but she knew she was right.

"Miss Daae?"

Christine turned around. Alfred, the secretary, stood before her.

"Mr. Gront, I believe?" she asked.

"I am delighted that you remember me," he replied. "I am here to convey you to your lodgings. You must be exhausted by your long journey. Allow me," he added, outstretching his hand to take her suitcase.

Alfred led her out of the crowd to a shiny black motorcar parked near the entrance to the harbor. He held the back door open while his charge was seating herself.

"I was told to inform you that Mr. Mueller is to be expected in a week, after which rehearsals begin. He will personally oversee them," Alfred spoke as he placed himself behind the wheel.

"Has Rodolpho[1] been found yet?" Christine inquired.

"Yes. His name is Robert Jones, he had been an understudy at the Met for several years. Mr. Mueller's opinion was that the gentleman was underappreciated."

Christine smiled. Who could know better than she of Erik's ability to locate obscure talent?

The streets whizzed past her very quickly. Being unfamiliar with New York, Christine couldn't begin to guess where they were or where they were heading. All she knew was that this was far removed from the fashionable section where the Brookes lived. Her mind returned to what the highly succinct Alfred said earlier – "your lodgings." Evidently, Erik resolved that, as well. Christine was perfectly happy to allow him to have his way – thus far, at any rate.

The car stopped in what looked like a quiet neighborhood. Directly in front of Christine stood a six-storied apartment building. Alfred helped the woman out of the vehicle and took her suitcase again.

"Follow me, Miss Daae."

They entered and went up to the second floor. At the door marked 212, Alfred fished in his pocket and procured a small key.

"If you will, Miss. This will be yours hereafter."

Christine obliged. She entered a shadowy hallway. Doors of frosted glass led into what looked like a large sitting room and a dining room.

"Good day," she heard from behind. By the time she turned around, Alfred had vanished, the entrance door was shut and the suitcase stood at her feet.

Before she could wonder at the proceedings, Christine heard the creaking of an opening door. Slowly, she turned to face the sound.

It was the sitting room door that opened. Bright sunlight flooded her vision, framing a tall, thin woman in a floor-length dress. Even though the features of her face were in the dark, Christine knew immediately who it was.

"Madame Giry!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, my dear child," the woman spoke. "I am so very happy to see you." She approached the young woman and embraced her like a daughter. Christine let out a sob.

The last time she saw the lady was two days before the wedding. They met in her Paris apartment, the key to which Germaine left to her – "just in case." Germaine said that she was about to look for some relations who may recommend her to someone as a dancing instructor. She wished to have nothing to do with the Opera, restored or not.

They had said good bye. Madame Giry said she'd write when settled.

And now they met in New York, ten years later.

"Madame Giry," Christine said, wiping a stray tear. "Dear Madame, it's been too long.".

"It has, sweet child," the woman consented. "Please accept my apologies for seeming to forget you. I never did; I simply thought it was for the best under the circumstances."

"Why?" Christine asked

"Well," Germaine replied, leading her guest into the sitting room and seating her on a couch, "well, I thought that any letter of mine would invariably remind you of _him_, and that would never let you heal. God knows I missed you terribly; I would have loved to hear about your little boy. Erik told me," she answered Christine's silent question.

"You brought him here, didn't you?" the young woman asked.

"Yes, dear. The Old World had no room for talent such as he possesses. We came here on a ship; he posed as my brother. I told anyone who asked that his face was burned by accident. "

"And Meg?"

"She came here too. You'll see her in a few hours; she is rehearsing."

"At Erik's theater?"

"Yes. Imagine, she sprained her ankle and was bedridden just when you came. Otherwise, you would have seen her when you came to that performance. When Erik told me, I was as shocked as he was."

"Why didn't we meet back then?"

"I didn't want to pressure you… or get my own hopes up, until I could be sure you decided to stay. I also doubted the Count would let you go – but you divorced him?"

"Yes, Madame. I couldn't bear it anymore. He's a good man… but not for me."

Germaine nodded.

"I feared it, dear child – and Erik?"

"I cannot tell you… I couldn't stop thinking about him all these years."

The older lady wrapped her arms around her almost-daughter. She now had the answer to all her questions.

Meg did indeed come home two hours later. As soon as the door closed behind her, she flew into the sitting room where her mother and Christine still sat, talking amiably.

"Christine!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so glad you are finally here!"

They embraced. Christine surveyed her friend. Meg, who looked girlish when they met last, became taller, her figure filled out nicely. Her posture was more graceful now – Christine remembered Madame's admonitions to her own daughter – _try to look like a dancer, not a drooping blade of grass!_ Meg and she had an excellent laugh over that one!

"Meg, you look splendid!" she said, laughing.

"Do I look like a dancer now?" the woman asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"You remembered it too?"

"How could I not?"

They laughed, all three of them – a good, healthy, sincere sound that warmed their hearts and proved that nothing changed. They were still a family.

Christine felt at home.

[1]Rodolpho – leading male part in _La boheme_


	20. Chapter 20

20

Thank you for reviews – they always make my day! Don't forget to review this chapter! Also, please take the time to vote in a poll on my profile page. It will be open for two weeks. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Christine spent the next week in exploring the neighborhood. New York delighted her with its vitality. It seemed that the town joined her in celebrating her newfound freedom. She loved taking long walks along the busy streets teeming with life.

The week passed quickly. On Sunday evening, a note, addressed to Miss Daae arrived. It was from Alfred, informing her that Mr. Mueller's ship would arrive early tomorrow morning, and that she would be expected to be at the theater at noon to begin rehearsing. Christine sighed happily. She had a job once again.

Meg was detained at the ballet performance, so Christine and Madame Giry dined without her. When they were both settled in the sitting room with cups of steaming tea, the young woman finally resolved to ask the question that plagued her for a long time.

"How did you get here?"

Madame Giry sipped her tea, deep in thought.

"Ten years ago," she began, "I went straight home after sending the Vicomte down. I was terrified of what Erik might force you into. I didn't know exactly how you felt about him and how deep the feelings were."

"I didn't either," Christine sighed.

Her companion nodded. "Meg caught up with me on the way home. She had Erik's mask. And I grew afraid. If he left it, what did that mean? Did the mob kill him? He was never unmasked, so I didn't know what to think."

"Finally, two hours later, he came. I suspected that he would, if he could – he would not leave altogether without a goodbye – I hoped. He looked dreadful – it was all over for him. I'm sorry it's distressing," she added, seeing a tear roll down Christine's cheek. "But I think you need to know."

Christine could only nod.

"I remember it so vividly," Madame Giry continued. "He wore his cloak to keep his face hidden. He did not cry… his grief went beyond tears. My poor Erik…"

"'I must leave, Germaine,' he said. 'If I stay, I may not be able to keep away from her, and I want her to be happy. The boy better see that she is happy, or else…' I had to force him to lie down, persuading him that we would plan in the morning."

"In the morning, we decided to leave Europe for America. It is easier to hide here. All our savings went into the trip and the purchase of the cheapest apartment we could find. The only belongings I did not sell were my apartment in Paris and the necessary furnishings. Those I left for you."

"When we arrived, Erik and I began to consider how to raise money. He was determined to build a theater of his own, where he could bend art to his will. In order to get the required funds, he sold his compositions – anonymously. I took them to the publisher and said that my son wrote them but wished to remain unknown. Meg danced in various small theaters and I gave private ballet lessons."

"Eventually, the sum was raised. The people who liked the music of the anonymous maestro readily embraced the idea to invest into a venue for performing his creations professionally. The theater was finished a year ago. Meg dances in the ballet, and I am the ballet mistress, although I train both Meg and a woman called Emily Temple to replace me when I am retired."

Christine nodded.

"I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you join us," Germaine said, smiling. "Your place is on the stage, in the limelight. You were born to soar, my dear, and Erik can give you wings."

Next morning, Christine dressed meticulously. It was always a good practice to look one's best, but she knew her reasons were even deeper. Erik's standards in everything were unmatched, and she expected him to be just as demanding an employer as a teacher.

She arrived to the music hall a quarter of an hour early. Alfred met her at the entrance and led her to the dim auditorium, where the stage was already occupied. Erik's tall, lean figure was readily apparent. The others were John Whitefield, who already sent a welcoming smile to Christine, a slightly shorter man, and a young woman, a few years older than Christine. All conversation ceased when Erik, noticing John's expression and following his eyes, saw Christine as she approached the ledge before the orchestra pit.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Here you are. Alfred, take her on stage, if you please."

Christine was accordingly led through a series of side doors onto the stage. Everyone watched her with mild curiosity.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Erik spoke, "this is the lady who is to sing Mimi for us, Miss Christine Daae." He spoke with the air of a magician who had produced a diamond instead of a rabbit from his hat.

"Daae?" the man Christine noticed earlier asked. He had a pleasant, deep voice. "You can't mean Miss Daae of Opera Populaire ten years ago?"

"The very same," Erik replied with satisfaction. "I told you, Mr. Jones, all my performers are highly select. Miss Daae, allow me to introduce you to Robert Jones, the Rodolpho of our production, and Caroline Howard, Musetta[1]"

"Pleased to meet you," she replied at once.

In the course of the rehearsal, Christine marveled at the motley collection of talent Erik had gathered. None of the performers, apart from herself, had ever performed on a regular basis at any high-end venues. True, she herself had done it years ago. But every one of them was unquestionably gifted. They were all there because he wanted them to be; he had already envisioned every detail of the production.

Rehearsals were short that day; it was mostly about getting acquainted with new coworkers. Around three in the afternoon, the group dispersed – Robert and Caroline left quickly, so Christine was left with Erik on the stage.

After the singing, the present silence seemed a little eerie, but it wasn't heavy or uncomfortable. The two simply studied each other in the murky semidarkness.

"The ballet will soon be here," Erik spoke at last.

"I understand… Thank you… for Madame Giry."

He nodded "I thought it was appropriate."

"I always regretted not knowing where she was." Christine walked to the edge of the stage, taking in the subtle and intricate décor. It was her first chance to look closely. "I have so far neglected to tell you," she continued, "your theater is beautiful. I have never seen anything quite like it."

"Because nothing quite like it has ever been built," Erik responded. "I am sure of it. I wished to create something unique – small, perhaps, but significant."

"You have succeeded – as always," Christine remarked.

"No, not always." This was accompanied by a bitter laugh.

"In the end, you always succeed," Christine protested, shaking her head thoughtfully. "Where are Andre and Firmin, the ones who mocked people for believing you exist? Half bankrupt! Where are you? On the stage of your own theater, doing a great kindness to a woman with an altogether unremarkable voice – unremarkable because she abandoned it."

"You have just praised a creation of mine," her employer replied, turning to leave. "Any half-wit architect can copy a building. But no one will be able to copy your voice. Do not criticize what I consider to be my crowning achievement."

And he merged into the shadows, leaving Christine in the center of a circle of pale yellow light.

[1] The significance of the characters and the plot of _La boheme _will be explained in a later chapter. There are several good reasons I chose that particular opera.


	21. Chapter 21

21

New chapter – hopefully, worth the wait. Please let me know what you think – reviews inspire me!

Three months of rehearsals passed by quicker than anyone had imagined. The premiere was scheduled for November the seventeenth. Today was the tenth.

Christine entered the concert hall – she came to think of it as the opera house – feeling quite at ease. It had grown to feel like home, much like the old Populaire. Or perhaps even more, since every detail here represented the man she couldn't stop thinking about.

Their relationship hadn't moved an iota. Every day, they would meet in rehearsals; as in years gone by, he directed the development – or, more appropriately, the restoration of – her voice. Every now and then, he would detain her in the small piano room to discuss a detail of her portrayal more in depth. But he was barely more than a courteous supervisor. Their old mutual understanding was irrevocably lost.

Erik had never had better proof of his acting talent. Despite his long life, he found he could still surprise even himself at times. Every time she leaves their private practice – which he has no right to schedule as often as he'd like – she is more despondent. But she is too proud to show it, his glorious, wonderful, beautiful Christine, whom he cannot allow himself to adore.

He cannot – and yet he does! And it will never end!

Erik himself couldn't articulate precisely what was taking place in his heart, shattered and repaired by turns. A lifetime of never trusting anyone completely had taught him caution. Trust meant a weak spot in the heavy armor around his heart and soul… if he had those.

Yes, he did. They were encased in a lovely woman with curly hair and dark eyes.

He wanted to trust her so badly. In some ways he already did. He knew she had committed herself to him – he just doubted the extent to which she did it. His observations told him of many things – surreptitious glances, undetectable sighs, and a light which came on in her eyes whenever she saw him. Yet a part of him wanted proof – and he knew the certain way to get it.

People lie.

Music is the only truth.

Christine took another sip of water and cleared her throat. Today's rehearsal went remarkably well. She was confident that the premiere would be a success.

Her voice was quite returned by now. Erik made an especial effort to coax it to perform as though ten years of silence had never taken place. He knew it even better than she did… naturally.

Every member of the cast had left by now. They worked a little later than usual, as there was no performance tonight. She was asked to remain behind.

Erik came onto the stage with his usual grace. Christine thought that none of the finest men she had met as a Countess had his poise. How that happened considering his long isolation was beyond her.

"We will be quite ready, I think," he said, settling himself at the piano and looking as near content as she had ever seen him. "I must admit I am very impressed with Miss Howard – I had my reservations… Would you please go through your half of the first duet for me? You sounded a little shrill earlier." He turned to the keys without waiting for a response – Christine always humored him no matter how many times she had to repeat the same phrase. He knew what was best.

They began – the magic circle had enclosed the young woman into a loving embrace of the music. And she fed it with her lovely, ethereal voice, the likes of which are rarely to be found. Erik felt just as lost in her voice as she was in the music he played. He was thoroughly enchanted by her singularly sweet, endearing tones. Instinctively, he raised his eyes to gaze at where heaven was supposedly situated – past the complicated contraptions that held the curtain and scenery in place. Suddenly, his eyes focused on something out of place.

Christine was too absorbed into the part to notice the abrupt _bang_ with which the music had stopped. That was why she was flabbergasted when events began to unfold with unreal speed. Erik flew at her, forcing her out of the straight-backed pose she assumed. They fell into a heap several feet away, Erik's secure arms being the only thing preventing Christine from rolling into the orchestra pit. A split second later, a loud_ crash_ reverberated around the auditorium, as a heavy light descended onto the place the singer occupied nearly a moment ago.

The silence which followed was one of the most deafening ones Christine would ever live through. Dust particles floated around the black mound that was the fallen light. When her vision, initially blurry with the sudden fall, focused a little, she distinguished Erik bending carefully over her, carefully pressing the index of his right hand against her wrist and staring intently into her eyes.

"Are you hurt? I apologize for the abruptness of it all," he said.

"If you weren't abrupt, I _would_ have been hurt," Christine said in a shaky voice. She meant to say more, to thank him, but Erik, satisfied with her wellbeing, was already on his feet, circling the object thoughtfully and gazing upward. Clearly, being on the other side of apparently paranormal events unsettled him considerably.

"I suppose what goes around really does come around," he said conversationally. "Don't move just yet," he added, seeing Christine shift a little. "But this is rather intriguing."

Erik returned to Christine's side and knelt. His eyes locked with hers once more, and she wondered how she could _exist_ without his gaze on her. But he seemed unruffled. Carefully, he turned her frame a little away from himself, slipped a hand under her back – _don't tremble!_ – and lifted her to a semi-sitting position as slowly as he could.

"Are you dizzy?" he asked, in the steadiest voice he could muster. _Must you look at me like that?_

"N-no," Christine responded. _I am, but not for the reason you think…_ Erik helped her sit upright, then lifted her onto the piano stool. When she made to stand up, his hand came down – rather sternly – on her shoulder.

"Keep your seat, please," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "I need to have a look at something – up there. Do not move and have no fear – I shall not be far."

Christine nodded wearily.

Erik reached the spiral staircase in no time at all. He ascended quickly, all the while glancing at the solitary figure perched on the stool. Every inch of him was looking for the all-too-familiar sensation of an _intruder_ nearby.

There was no trace of a presence in the rafters – naturally, whoever it was had already left. Sweeping the area with his eyes, the man noticed a glint of white. Lifting the item, he saw that it was a fine linen handkerchief with a coronet embroidered over a set of initials that couldn't help but make Erik wonder.

_PTO_


	22. Chapter 22

22

Chapter 22 – I never thought I'd get this far. Thanks for your reviews, they keep me motivated – keep them coming! Also, if you haven't done so already, please vote in my poll on my author's page. It will close next Saturday. I realized that it was invisible the first week it was up and corrected it. Thanks!

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful. Erik led Christine into his office, nearly forced her to take a glass of wine and escorted her home. There, he instructed Germaine to see her to bed immediately. Christine, unable to sleep, could hear the muted sounds of their voices well into the night.

The shock wore off by the next morning, and the daily rehearsal went off seamlessly. Erik showed no concern whatsoever, which felt strangely comforting. Christine found the unshakable faith she once had in him resurging. If he wasn't worried, she must necessarily be safe.

The excitement mounted among the members f the cast. They all felt supremely ready. Two days before the premiere, at the end of the last dress rehearsal, they were chatting animatedly. Caroline was brushing hair away from her forehead and laughing at something Robert had said. Christine watched them with a smile. She came to love them in a special way for their impeccable standards both for themselves and for others. They were hard-working and entirely devoted to their art.

Robert was married with three children. Christine had occasion to stop by his apartment with the vocal score he had lent her and saw the warm family atmosphere that seemed to be preeminent in his family. His wife, Sophie, wouldn't hear of Christine leaving without dinner. It was a highly pleasant evening.

Caroline lived in a tiny apartment with an elderly mother. She was a bit more serious than jolly Robert, but a better listener could not be found. Christine would often come home with her "to make a third at tea." They had some lovely chats.

"So, Christine, can I tempt you with Mother's stew for dinner tonight?" Caroline asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I'd love to, but I can't," Christine smiled apologetically. "I've a dinner invitation already."

That she did. Daisy Brooke, with whom Christine corresponded regularly, finally succeeded in procuring her attendance at a "little dinner" her mother was giving that night. Frankly, Christine was not at all eager to go, but she had had to refuse several engagements with the Brookes due to the theater already. Were she to refuse again… she just did not wish to seem rude.

Which was why she could be found in the Brookes' sitting room about two hours later. Daisy led her through, all smiles and laughter. Mrs. Brooke was equally friendly. The lady whispered tidbits about the other guests into Christine's ear. It looked as though someone rather important was expected to arrive, as both mother and daughter shot glances at the front door at regular intervals. At last it opened and in came a man. Christine had to stifle a gasp of recognition.

He was tall and lean, with wavy dark hair and clever hazy eyes. Thin lips were framed by a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. Gazing around the room, he saw her and positively beamed.

"My dear Madame, what a delight!" He made a beeline for where she and Mrs. Brooke sat, and kissed both their hands.

"Mrs. Brooke, I must thank you for your invitation, especially as it permits me to see my old friend the Madame! How are you?" he inquired, gazing deeply into Christine's eyes.

"Why, Paul," Christine smiled in response, "do you not always find me well?"

"Indeed, my dear friend," Paul said, sitting down beside her "indeed, you are eternally in bloom."

"And you are eternally indulging your desire to flatter others unnecessarily – I have told you before."

"Yes, you have, but how can I help it when I see you?"

"Paul," Christine said, a hint of ice in her voice this time, "just because I am no longer married…" She was deeply thankful that Mrs. Brooke was called away just as he approached.

"Yes, Raoul told me – nasty business."

"That is very much a matter of opinion."

"Really, you must realize it is nasty business no matter the opinion. And what am I to call you now?"

"Miss Daae will do."

"Is that your maiden name?"

"As if you didn't know!"

"I forgot."

"Indeed? Well, that is endearing, certainly. So what exactly has Raoul told you?"

"Too much and not enough – that you left him to sing in a company owned by some gentleman of questionable character."

"More flattering still… Are you here to persuade me to return?"

"As if I'd do that… No, I'm here to persuade me to come with me instead of singing that sordid thing."

"Good gracious, Paul, I've sang far more suggestive things."

"That may well be true, but you were in a theater of a stellar reputation. Raoul made your employer sound like the devil incarnate."

"I can imagine, but you know he's given to dramatize things."

"Lord Oberon!" Mr. Brooke's friendly voice broke the quiet but heated exchange. "I see you have met Miss Daae. We are going in to dinner now – Miss Daae, may I offer you my arm? Here comes Mrs. Brooke – will you do her the honor, my lord?"

"The honor will be all mine."

At dinner, Christine and Paul were seated far enough apart not to talk. It was an enormous relief for Christine. Few things grated on her nerves with the fashionable flair of Paul Oberon, son and heir to a rather valuable British title and fortune.

Long ago, Paul joined the navy for the briefest period imaginable. As the elder son of a wealthy duke, he certainly did not have to – it was, as quite a few of his actions, a whim. The sea beckoned to him with its tumultuous depths. He spent only three years as an officer – a position more granted than deserved.

It so happened that his ship met a French frigate about a year before the end of Paul's nautical career. In a friendly exchange between the vessels, he met a young Vicomte of an age with himself. Later, their paths crossed in Switzerland, where the mothers of both were enjoying the world-famous lakes. A friendship of a sort had developed. They corresponded regularly and visited each other every year or two.

It was a steady, deep-rooted friendship by the time Christine married Raoul. Quite naturally, she was introduced to Paul. And the trouble began.

Paul was never engaged in a lengthy affair. He never wanted to be, until now. The young and beautiful Countess excited his imagination. A month into their acquaintance, he caught Christine in a tete a tete and made a confession. It was rebuffed, kindly but firmly. No change in their relationship resulted; no outward change, at least. Christine was always happy to welcome her husband's friend, and he responded with all due gratitude and respect.

Christine saw Paul's presence as a nuisance rather than a real threat. She has done nothing to make her vulnerable to him. And besides, he is much like Raoul. He would never harm a woman by word or deed. The mere idea was ludicrous.

Thus Christine whiled the evening away, chatting with Daisy, who told her of the chance meeting with Paul while showing the sights to a visiting friend who knew him about four or five days ago. She meant to tell her where it happened, but a neighbor distracted her with some fresh piece of gossip. Christine left for home shortly afterward.


	23. Chapter 23

23

I really hope this chapter isn't confusing – or boring. This is the chapter that I have been visualizing in my head for almost the entire time writing this story. Please let me know what you think!

The day of the premiere had arrived, cold and wet. Christine's coat was soaked by the time she reached the refuge of the theater. She rapidly shed it in her dressing room.

Hours passed quickly, spent in last-minute rehearsals. Christine's attention was divided between Robert's inexplicable pensiveness and Erik's conspicuous absence. Of all the days to be busy – this was very strange. But she had no time to dwell on that, not when the seamstress was shortening the hem of her dress and when Caroline wanted to make sure they sang in unison during their rather short albeit delightful duet.

Finally, Christine was left on her own in the dressing room. Her costume and make-up complete, she could now concentrate on becoming the character.

Mimi, the frail, sickly young woman, was a novel part. She was a lonely soul who saw beauty in the simplest things. She lived alone in a shabby building, earning a living by embroidering flowers. One day, her single candle went out, and she went to the neighbor living upstairs to ask for a flame. And so the story began.

Christine appreciated the similarity between herself and her character. Her light had gone out as well – when her father died. And she reached heavenward, begging for divine intervention. Had she not been helped? Had an angel not come down to give her solace?

"Miss Daae!" a voice intruded into her thoughts. "You'd better go to the trapdoor[1]."

With a contented sigh, Christine left the room.

* * *

She now stood below the trapdoor. The voices of people leaving the stage[2] were fading. She braced herself – it was almost time. Where was Erik when she needed him the mo-.

"I'm not in the mood!" a clear, golden, _familiar_ voice rang from above. Christine's very soul seemed to take a deep breath and relax. He was _up there_, waiting for her to join him – he must have planned it all along. So much the better. Nothing could possibly go wrong while he watched over her. It was comforting to think that she knew him enough to not be shocked. He'll never live his love of the shock and awe down. Well, she had better play along.

Christine knocked and received the expected query.

"Who's there?" Again, the warm tones made her heart melt and her soul drift upward to join him. The trapdoor opened.

"A lady!" he exclaimed, delight coloring his voice. He helped her climb up and out with steady, strong movements. She felt his eyes on her as she smoothed the faded blue dress. She stole a look at his face; instead of his usual white mask it was concealed by a tan-colored fabric one, barely discernible across an orchestra pit and in the sparse lighting.

"I'm sorry, my light had gone out," she explained.

And the action moved on. Some scenes were to be enshrined in her memory for all eternity.

According to the script, her light was blown out promptly after being relit, and she dutifully lost the key to her room as well. Erik and she "searched," kneeling on the floor, when Erik's hand caught hers deftly[3].

The adoring aria he sang pierced her heart. She vividly recalled the one and only performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Neither of them truly _acted_ that night; soon afterwards, she came to realize just how honest each word had been. And now, there was the same sensation, as Erik's irresistible voice declared how powerless true charm rendered him.

Her heart melted further a little later, as they – their characters – declared love for each other[4]. The swells of music guided them as they descended into the trapdoor to join the celebrations outside.

There was a moment, in the dark below the stage, when time stood still. Thunderous applause from up above assaulted their ears. Even so, both were entirely unaware of the world around them, as they looked into each other's eyes. They said nothing, only _felt_.

Act two began. Mimi came to Rodolfo's friend to beg for help; Rodolfo's jealousy stifled her, and it was completely unwarranted. Marcello the painter begged her to leave as he heard Rodolfo's approach. Of course, Mimi stayed to listen. As Christine diligently listened to Rodolfo's complaints of her supposed infidelity, certain phrases showed themselves in an unexpectedly relevant light.

"A foppish Viscount eyes her with longing,[5]" Erik sang. Christine shivered – she was to be punished a little, after all…

Years later, Christine believed that it was the final scene that had sealed it all. Mimi, separated from Rodolfo, returns to him, feeling the imminence of her end. It was the most emotional section of them all, and she felt the urge to prove the reality of what she sang. As Erik knelt beside the measly bed she was laid upon, her voice rose, brimming with emotion she could taste.

"Are they gone?" she inquired. "I pretended to sleep so we would be left alone. I have so many things to tell you – or, rather, one thing, more vast than the sea. _You are my love and all of my life._" Their duet carried on, until Mimi closed her eyes to rest – for all eternity[6].

As the curtain closed on Erik cradling Christine's immobile form, a hush fell over the theater, in a moment replaced by a wave of applause. Christine opened her eyes slowly, afraid that it was only a dream. Erik's eyes met hers, and she felt the world shift with the power of his gaze. This powerful gaze, this baring of a soul she hadn't seen for ten years. For both of them, sunlight itself was eclipsed by the glow of the other's eyes.

Erik helped her up and led her into the wings. The cast applauded as well; it was impossible not to in the charged atmosphere. The curtain began to open and the actors began walking back to receive the well-deserved accolades.

"Go," Erik told her quietly. "Go and take what is rightfully yours and what you were so unjustly denied for so long. Let them adore you."

"Not without you," she replied vehemently. "If you consider tonight a triumph – and it was – it is quite as much yours as mine – more yours. Don't tell me you don't feel it. I won't believe it." To give further credibility to her voice, she outstretched her left hand. After a moment's hesitation, Erik fitted his right arm to support it. They began a slow progress down the stage.

As they reached the center of the stage and turned to face the crowd, the applause grew absolutely frantic. Christine bowed several times, smiling broadly at the sea of faces. An idea entered her mind. There was something she _had_ to do.

"Don't move," she whispered into Erik's ear. "Whatever else is happening, stay and enjoy it." Not waiting for his response, she carefully freed her arm from his hold. Approaching Caroline, she whispered something in her ear. Caroline nodded.

All the cast separated into two halves and left the stage. Applause did not drop a notch as Erik bowed – a little stiffly, perhaps. For the first time in his life, he stood alone before a full house rapturously maintaining a standing ovation. A few moments passed, and he gave the signal to close the curtain.

Seeing him walk toward the group of actors that contained her, Christine caught his eye, smiled and turned around. She was going to her dressing room.

And she was certain that he would follow.

[1] As Mimi lives below Rodolfo the poet, some productions have her climb up through a trapdoor.

[2] A short synopsis of the opera up to this point may be helpful. Rodolfo, the male lead, is an impoverished poet. His friends, also artists, have been visiting him, but have just left for a café to celebrate Christmas Eve. He had stayed behind to finish an article he was writing. All the words of the opera will be given in English directly in the text. Now and then, a footnote will indicate which track of the playlist we are in in case you want to listen to how it would sound. The following scene is track 5.

[3] Track 7.

[4] Track 9.

[5] Track 16

[6] Track 25.


	24. Chapter 24

24

I hope you enjoy this chapter – please review!

The dressing room seemed so quiet after the applause that Christine felt a little lost at first. She changed into a dress she prepared specially. It was a simple loosely fitting white silk that felt very comfortable. Christine approached the vanity table to begin removing her make-up, when something carefully placed at its center caught her eye.

A crimson rose without a thorn, tied with a black velvet ribbon lay there.

Christine picked it up carefully and deliberately, slowly inhaling its heady, sweet smell. It was flawless, intoxicating… perfect. Its smell carried her to the times of her girlhood, when she believed in angels who taught music; to the times before the terror, the deaths, the heartbreaks…

She was so engrossed in her memories that the world around could crumble and she wouldn't have noticed. As it was, Erik entered the room and was completely unnoticed. Taking advantage of that fact, he leaned against the closed door and allowed himself to appreciate the scene.

Christine stood sideways before the mirror, head slightly bent down towards the rose. The yellow light of the gas lamps created an ethereal golden glow around her head – in her white dress, she seemed a fitting physical representation of an angel. What affected Erik the most, however, was the expression on her face – that of untroubled, blissful peace. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open with a tranquil smile.

Something intangible alerted Christine to his presence. She did not seem at all surprised to see him there – in fact, she looked as though his arrival was expected and wished for. The woman sat on the vanity stool facing her guest and motioned for him to sit down.

No words were exchanged at first. Mostly because everything that could – or should – have been said was uttered onstage. Both recalled the last duet and the way Christine gazed into Erik's eyes, willing him to believe that she had meant every syllable – _you are my love and life_.

"You did magnificently, my dear," Erik finally spoke. His face was obscured by the shadows, but his voice was telling enough – warm and gentle, it felt like a caress. "Any compliment I could think of would pale compared to the reality. I have never been more pleased or proud of your talent and my tutelage."

"Thank you," Christine replied quietly. She was powerless to express what her heart was full of. Erik continued to watch her, amazed at the warmth that poured out of her eyes. It seemed to envelop him in a snug cocoon – he had never felt anything remotely close to this.

"Where is Robert?" Christine voiced the question in the back of her mind.

"Home, I presume. We spoke this morning; he was astonished to be paid extra for _not_ performing." Something akin to a smile softened Erik's features. "My methods _have_ changed somewhat over the years, … and as for my wishes…" The statement was left to hang delicately in the air.

The next moment, his demeanor changed. He rose from the chair and, with two enormous strides, placed himself to stand over Christine. Not _tower over_, no; this was a gentle sort of defense.

"The theater should be empty by now," he said. "Come with me to the stage."

"Why?"

"There's something you ought to see," he said. There was an odd, anticipating glint that lit his eyes. Christine shrugged and accepted the offered arm.

The auditorium was indeed cleared of all the people. Props were moved aside, making the vast stage feel somehow larger. Christine wondered why there weren't any cleaning people bustling in the auditorium. Suddenly, two shadows at the opposite end of the stage caught her attention.

"Come forward, if you will, Madame," Erik called in their direction. His tone was polite and respectful.

The shadows moved. Now Christine could see the outline of a tall woman leading a child by the hand. A child?

"Gustave! Madame la Comtesse!" she exclaimed – there was no doubt that Josephine was before her, holding a grinning Gustave by the hand.

"I told you I wanted to hear you sing, Mother!" he said, running into her open arms.

"You and I both, young Vicomte," Erik said.

"Madame, how can I thank you?" Christine asked, glancing above Gustave's shoulders – he was still in her arms.

"Firstly, my dear, I am still 'Mother' to you. I hate being called Madame by those I love and respect. Secondly, if you must thank anyone, you'll thank Monsieur Mueller, who arranged for us to come here tonight. And lastly – I found your performance enchanting!"

"You were wonderful, Mother!" Gustave said with feeling.

"Thank you, darling. And thank you, Mother."

"It is very late," Josephine said, smiling at the disappointed boy. "I think I'll get Gustave to the hotel and into his bed. We are here for two weeks – come anytime." She gave Christine a card – Waldorf Astoria, of course.

"Good night, my little one," Christine kissed her son.

"Good night, Mother," Gustave replied. "Good night, Monsieur."

"Good night," Erik bowed to the Countess and the boy. They left, Josephine moving as gracefully as ever.

Tears, hot, prickly tears began their descent down Christine's pale cheeks.

"I have no words to express my gratitude," she said, facing Erik. "This means so very much to me… and to him… how on earth did you manage it?"

"Well," Erik deliberated a little, "it's not nearly as exciting a story as you appear to think. I wrote to Madame de Chagny while still in Paris. I introduced myself as your employer and said that I thought your son's presence at the opening night would mean a lot to you and that I would be happy to make any necessary arrangements. She permitted me to call on her the next day, we discussed it, and – " he shrugged. "It's amazing, the influence she has over her son – I assume she told him where she took the boy."

"He does listen to her," Christine agreed. "Which in no way lessens the magnitude of what you've accomplished."

Erik shrugged again. Without so much as a shared glance, he offered her his arm and she accepted. They made their way back to the dressing room. Christine began to wash away the make-up, feeling a steady, curious gaze examine her from behind.

She was brushing her hair when he finally spoke.

"I haven't been in your company for this long for ten years – a little more now, actually," he said. Christine supplied no reaction; she felt that speaking now would destroy every chance they still had.

"Strange, isn't it?" he continued meditatively. "I restrained myself from so much as thinking of you. I meant to stay away from you. And you yourself destroyed that strategy – the first person who should have approved of it… What I felt when I saw you in my theater…" he seemed to be at a loss for words "so close, and yet farther away from me than ever – married and a mother to another man's child… a _son_. And I meant to keep away from you again. New York is a large enough city for us never to cross paths… or so I thought. Fate would have it otherwise."

Christine watched his reflection in her mirror. Only the eyes, two bright golden orbs, could be clearly seen in the semidarkness. Many emotions swam in their depths – agitation, nervousness – a sort of restlessness she could not describe.

"You never failed to surprise me," Erik resumed. "When I was convinced that you loved me as I loved you, you chose the other. And when I was certain that time erased every feeling for me but horror and disgust from your heart, you actually _volunteered to sing for me_, to be under my influence once again. I still can't quite grasp why. Won't you enlighten me?"

Christine turned to face him. Now was the time; she felt it with every one of her battered, overstretched heartstrings.

"You can't justify your reasoning because you begin with a flawed premise," she said softly. "You assume I did not love you ten years ago – but that simply isn't true." She shuffled her hands nervously, trying to calm her flying thoughts.

"Ten years ago, on the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_ – " Erik flinched visibly at the name " – I felt so many things at once. Terror – you _killed_ Piangi, Erik! And you threatened the one person who was my link to my father. I was also terrified of what I felt… singing that duet with you… Tonight I embraced those same emotions and gave them to you, but then… I was only a girl. I had no idea that such things existed. I know you think I kissed you to save Raoul… well, that was true at first, I cannot deny it. But as you held me, I felt, for the first time, what love and passion meant. If you didn't let me go, we wouldn't have moved an inch since then; I'd be content to stay that way for all eternity."

Their eyes connected for a few seconds. Unable to suffer his smoldering stare, Christine turned to face the mirror.

"For two weeks I lived at the Chagny house in Paris. Madame Giry did not come – now I understand why. Back then, I thought she did not wish to remind me of what happened with her presence. I also suspected Raoul was preventing her from seeing me. Then I was taken to the summer house for a month…There, I thought of you constantly… when didn't I? When we came to Paris again, my mind was made up. I wouldn't tell Raoul – he'd never understand. The night before I was supposed to marry him, I returned to the cellars. I did not intend to leave ever again, but you were gone."

Erik's breath caught halfway to the lungs. He was so eager to leave Paris… and if only he had waited a little… what was a month compared to ten years? Unable to restrain himself, he rose, slowly and deliberately. He came towards Christine from behind and placed his palms on her shoulders.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asked her reflection.

"I think the best thing would be to agree to forgive each other," Christine said in an even tone.

"You've done nothing blameworthy that I didn't force you to do," Erik scoffed. "That night would frighten any woman… and you turned to the man who stayed by your side for aid… it was only natural under the circumstances." He gave her a weak smile. "What is more natural still, my dear, is for you to be worn out. I better get you home, or Germaine will attack me for exploiting you – and if there's one thing scarier than an angry opera ghost, it's the angry ballet mistress. Come, my Christine – let us not dwell on the past. You have a performance tomorrow."

He helped her into her coat and took her home.


	25. Chapter 25

25

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I am not sure whether I like this chapter, so let me know what you think. Also, I'm fairly positive that the next chapter will be the last – there will also be an epilogue. So if you've been reading and not reviewing, now's a good time to express your opinion. Thanks!

Ten performances flew by in a whirl of color and sound. Christine and the rest of the cast could not have been more delighted with the reception – the public seemed to be enchanted with their work. Erik sang three out of ten nights; Christine felt a little sorry for Robert on the second and third occasion it happened – John had only the time to say that the listed performer was unable to attend as the theater erupted with applause. It seemed that the rumors of the nameless "understudy" spread like wildfire. Both nights, Christine led the rest of the cast off the stage, allowing Erik to finally bask in the accolades he so richly deserved. He only shrugged afterwards, but his eyes told a different story entirely.

Tonight was the last performance. Robert did remarkably well. He now sat in Christine's dressing room, laughing at a mishap – the trapdoor got slightly stuck in the first act and he looked somewhat comical trying to pry it open. Erik, who stood in a corner – he came to congratulate the two lead singers with their final triumph – was chuckling quietly. Christine gave him a curious glance.

Since the opening night, there was an imperceptible shift in their relationship. Erik's eyes did not rest on her oftener or longer than was normal, but there was something new in them now – or rather, something old, lost and slowly, painstakingly regenerated. It was a tender sort of warm light that wrapped itself around Christine in soft ribbons. Like a loving caress, it gave her the indescribable sensation of being adored – one that she prayed never to lose again.

There was a strange hum of voices coming from behind the door. It sounded very much like an argument. The door burst open, and in came John, white with annoyance. On his heels came Paul, looking pleased with himself. He carried an enormous bouquet of orchids.

"I told this gentleman that you were resting, Miss Daae," John said in a displeased tone. "But he insists on being an old friend."

"And so I am, aren't I?" Paul inquired gaily, presenting his gift with a flourish.

"You shouldn't have," Christine said – and meant it. She wouldn't make a move to accept the flowers, so, with a picturesque bow, the man laid them to rest at her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, the woman saw Robert fidget uncomfortably and Erik watch with semi-amused interest.

"All these years, and you never sang for me," Paul said. "I must say I feel deprived."

"I am very sorry," Christine commented frostily. "I never felt inclined to sing then. Gentlemen," she addressed the room at large, perceiving that no other choice remained, "if you please, Mr. Paul Oberon, an old friend of the Count de Chagny. Mr. Robert Jones, my fellow singer and Mr. Erik Mueller, our employer."

Paul eyed Erik with evident curiosity.

"A pleasure, gentlemen… Miss Daae, do you plan on singing for this establishment again?"

"If there is an offer, certainly."

"I rather hoped you wouldn't." Neither of the men seemed to be leaving, so Paul resolved to ignore their existence.

"Why not?"

"Because you are meant for better things."

Christine was astonished – and immensely grateful to Erik and Robert for stoutly holding their positions. It was obvious that both were there to defend her from as yet an unknown threat.

"I can hardly feel flattered by that statement, you know," she said.

Paul grew silent. It was obvious from her collected manner that she was beyond reason. Just as _he_ said, she is bewitched by the madman. Beads of sweat lined his brow – anger always did that to him. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

It never made contact with his forehead. As soon as he retrieved the fine cloth from his pocket, it was snatched by a hand that was rendered practically invisible by the speed with which it acted.

"Excuse me?" Paul asked, nonplussed. He could see shock similar to his own on Christine's face.

"You are most careless, Mr. Oberon," Erik said in his most harmless, conversational tone. "Leaving handkerchiefs in the most inopportune places – very unwise, if I say so myself."

He showed the handkerchief to a very confused Paul. Christine could see it as well – white, with his initials crowned with a coronet – in anticipation of his inheritance. She remembered Raoul introducing them for the first time – his friend, Paul Thomas Oberon.

Meanwhile, Erik had produced an identical handkerchief out of his pocket. Paul became pale.

"I found this on the rafters above the stage on the day Miss Daae was almost killed by a rogue light. And then I took care to speak to technicians, who told me a young man was very curious about the construction of the stage not two days earlier."

Silence reigned. Robert rose from his seat, outrage lining his face.

"Sir, you dare to appear before this good lady after making an attempt on her life?"

Paul's lips quivered in silent indignation.

"This good lady? This seductress, you mean! She ensnares men and then tosses them aside, when they have served their purpose! Madam, where is your husband of ten years, the father of your only child?"

"I did not run away from him – I divorced him," Christine said tersely. "I did not elope in the dead of the night. Is that why you tried to kill me – to avenge Raoul's broken heart?"

"No – my own!" Paul exclaimed, maddened beyond reason now. "You appeared, and the world vanished before my eyes, but you belonged to the one I loved as a brother! I could not bear to dishonor him in that fashion. And then, you abandon us both to sing – on a whim! How long will it take for you to see what a fleeting thing success is? Instead of a dignified, respectable wife, you must forever be an actress, a singer. What is the matter with you?"

The other two men in the room watched this monologue with cold hatred. Robert, who came to love Christine as a slightly younger sister, and who suspected that singing was not what caused Madame de Chagny to demand her freedom, was incensed that her personal affairs should be examined so openly by a man who had no connection to her.

"Sir," he said chokingly, "you have no right. I know this lady for a very short time, but I feel certain that she never willingly did what you accuse her of."

Christine felt a fresh wave of gratitude envelop her.

"Whatever Miss Daae is or is not to blame for," Erik said, crossing the space between himself and Christine and lowering his hand on her shoulder, 'is my concern as her employer. If her behavior satisfies me, that is all that matters. I care not for idle rumors, but I do care if someone attempts to kill my leading soprano."

"Your leading soprano?" Paul sneered derisively. "You think I do not know what you two were?"

"If you do," Christine interjected, feeling Erik's hand grip her shoulder tighter still in an attempt to keep his temper in check, "then you know that there was never anything improper between us. Why did Raoul tell you?"

"He needed sympathy," Paul said coldly.

"Naturally, the man who has desired his wife was the proper person to provide it," Erik said nonchalantly.

Christine fought back an unholy desire to laugh. Such was the extent of Erik's hold over her – even in the darkest hours he could make her smile and love life anew.

His remark hit home. Paul's face became whiter than ever.

"How… dare… you…?"

"If the Comte truly told you of me, you ought to know better than that, _sir_," the masked man said calmly. "Did he not tell you I kill at whim?" He appreciated the shock on the young man's face for a moment. "However, I feel that Miss Daae's inaugural season at my theater does not deserve to be stained with blood… hers or otherwise. I shall make you an offer – leave her be and go in peace… but I may change my mind if I get so much as a hint that you are pursuing her."

"Please, Paul," Christine said softly. "You were angry, I know. You would never wish to truly harm anyone."

"No," Paul agreed. "But seeing you happy… and wanting to be the one who gave you that… it became too much. Raoul told me that you left him… and why… the true reason. I thought…"

"No," Christine shook her head. "I have irrevocably chosen my path. There is no turning back."

He nodded very slowly. There was a pause. With a last look around the dressing room, Paul left.

Robert coughed in an attempt to break the uneasy silence that weighed down the air.

"I shall bid you good night then," he said, still disconcerted.

"Yes, it grows late," Christine acquiesced as Erik gave a curt nod. "Thank you for staying, Robert."

"But of course," the man smiled and vacated the room.

"Any season deserves a grand finale, I suppose," Christine remarked, turning her head to watch Erik.

"I could have done without the falling objects," he replied.

"All's well that ends well. I am alive, and Paul won't return. I know that much."

"If he does, I won't be that lenient," the man said. "I let him go because… we are guilty of the same thing. I dropped a chandelier practically on your head – out of anger and jealousy. I am hardly better than him."

"I cannot tell you why you are wrong, but I know it in my heart," Christine spoke gently. "I understand your motives much better than his, and forgive you readily."

"What if I cannot forgive myself?" Erik faced the curtained window, his back temporarily turned to the woman.

"You must devise a way to do just that, or we will eternally live in the past."

He faced her. "Isn't that what is bound to happen at any rate?"

Christine rose and approached him – so close that Erik could feel her breath on the exposed side of his face.

"Not if I can help it," she said. "I … Do you honestly believe that I crossed Atlantic – insisted on a divorce – to sing?"

Erik couldn't say anything just then. He could only watch her carefully.

"For ten years, I've tried to convince myself that what happened between us could never have happened any other way," she continued. "I don't think… I ever truly succeeded… if I hadn't been such a coward…"

"I frightened you," Erik whispered, and Christine could see his right cheek turn pale. "I frightened you so badly – I had no right to pose the ultimatum the way I did, but it was the only way to keep you that I could see, and I was so angry. And you sang so well that night, my dear. I never told you, but you did."

"Thank you," she smiled. "But that was then; what of now?"

"What of now, indeed? What are you planning on, exactly?"

"You are not making it any easier," Christine huffed, but a twinkle in her eyes hinted at general amusement. "Very well, I shall have to be blunt. Do you love me at all, Erik?"

Her question caught him a little off-guard. Possibilities that he had forbidden himself to consider beckoned anew with fresh vigor. In any case, he didn't find it in himself to lie.

"Yes… Always," he replied and was shocked to see the twinkle become a beacon.

"All right," she nodded with that infernal smile. "What do you suggest we do about it? I say we because I find that I love you as well."

Erik's world was shifting before his eyes. Not because he hadn't known, but because it was spoken, released into the air, made a fact. Having waited for these words for more years than he'd ever care to admit to, he was at a loss for a reaction.

"Erik?" Christine suddenly felt very unsure of herself. It wasn't as if she had expected him to leap into air, but his grave stare unnerved her all the same.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, "it's just that I… am not accustomed to being told that."

"If I stay, I will gladly remedy that."

"And will you stay?"

"If you let me."

"Let you? Many times I have been seconds away from falling to my knees at your feet and begging you to stay."

"That is entirely unnecessary, though I am certain it would make for an interesting scene."

Gingerly, as if a single touch of his fingers would shatter her – or the sensation of her body could do the same to him – Erik's hands rose of their own accord. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her a little closer – and then a little closer still. Her eyes widened for a second, but she did not resist. Neither did her lips when his touched them – at first tentatively, but increasingly more insistent.

"Christine," he heard himself say, "I love you so much."

"I love you too. Please believe that."

"I do – so much, in fact, that I shall pose a question."

"Oh?"

"It is more of a request – marry me." His eyes searched her – for trepidation, she knew.

"Willingly."

"Really?"

"Really." She smiled, widely now. "Tell me where to be and what to wear, and I'll be there."

Erik laughed. Like everything about him, his laugh was musical, mesmerizing. Christine remembered its sound and reveled in the familiarity.

"I will," he said. It was such a simple concept – holding her in his arms. It felt natural and right like nothing else ever did. And yet it sent shivers of wonder down every nerve of his body. It was an astounding feeling.

Both silently vowed to never let it disappear.


	26. Chapter 26

26

Well, this is it, everyone, the last chapter. Whew! I have never written anything half this length before. Although there's still epilogue left, I'd like to thank everyone – readers and reviewers alike. Without you, I would grow very discouraged. Thank you ever so much! Please let me know what you thought of this story.

They were married three days later.

For two of those days, Christine saw nothing of Erik. She merely took long solitary walks around the neighborhood, trying to decide where dreams ended and reality began. She told nothing to either Madame Giry or Meg, but they seemed to somehow know. She felt nothing new – not even a jolt of the _I'm engaged!_ adrenaline happy brides feel. In fact, Christine felt as if she'd been engaged for these ten years and _still_ had not set the wedding date.

The note that came to her on the evening of the third day was unsigned, but his handwriting and the crimson rose that accompanied it were effective. The note simply instructed her to come to the theater at noon the next day. Christine smiled.

Any other woman would have been offended. Three days of silence and a dry note! But she knew better. Whatever form their marriage would take, it was a mere formality. Their bond was stronger than the chain of golden rings or vows recited before a priest. It connected them in a manner nothing else could.

She arrived ten minutes before the appointed time, dressed in a simple lavender gown with a collar and gloves of white lace. Alfred met her at the door and, after his customarily short greeting, led her into Erik's office.

Nothing looked remotely different here. Erik stood with his back to her until the door closed behind Alfred.

Then he turned around.

It would be difficult to say what emotion was displayed on his face. Cleary, he wasn't certain himself. But wasn't it his constant curse – too many emotions for one heart, one human to be in control of? Christine gave him a small smile of encouragement.

"So, what can I do for you this morning?" she asked brightly. He had just asked her to come, after all.

"Marry me," Erik said with a mirror image of her almost childish grin, which quickly succumbed to uncertainty, "if you are still willing, of course."

"Oh, I am," she replied "but with one condition. I want to see the man I'm marrying. Last time, I neglected to do it properly, and look what happened."

"I see. You wish to see my face," he elaborated.

"Well, yes – you don't think I'd marry a man I haven't seen in over ten years?"

"That would be folly," Erik agreed dryly. "Very well." His pale hand moved upwards, so slowly at first that motion was almost invisible. Midway to his goal, he seemed to decide that the best course would be to get it over with. He pulled the mask off quickly and proceeded to watch Christine's reaction with apparent apathy.

Christine, however, was displaying no emotion besides a strange sort of satisfied recognition. She gave herself a little nod, as though happy that her memory did not fail her.

Indeed, the right side of Erik's face was rather like it was when she saw it first. There were new wrinkles, but no big changes seemed to have taken place. He had simply aged. It felt strange to think of him as aging; for some reason, there was something about him that made one think of never aging – a sense of the static.

"That's settled then," Christine smiled again, quite enjoying the look of intense curiosity on Erik's face.

Erik studied her reaction with unconcealed interest. She seemed to be completely unaffected by his looks. What has happened – who was this woman, physically so much like his Christine of ten years ago, and yet so different in her approach to life. With a pang, he realized that her life was not as easy and pleasant as he had assumed it would be when he let her go. She, his pure angel and muse, had been touched by sorrow and loneliness, just as he had. Perhaps that what happened to two halves of a whole when they were forced apart. It would end today, however – nothing and no one would come between them ever again.

He came closer to her. She smiled, showing no intention to move away. Erik took her hands into his very gently, studying every pore as if seeing it for the very first time. Christine followed his eyes with a fond gaze.

"We better go," he said, turning to his desk and replacing his mask with one hand, the other still holding hers. "We are expected."

It happened so very naturally – Erik offered Christine his elbow and she accepted it as though this had been routine of many years. She allowed herself to be led – it quickly became obvious where.

Again, it felt only natural that they should be married in the one place he could claim as singularly, indivisibly his – the stage of the theater he had built. It was the one place truly sacred to him, the gift he bestowed on his bride. Christine recalled him referring to her voice as his crowning achievement, but in her eyes, it was this building and what it represented. It meant that, at long last, Erik had staked a claim in the world that rejected him, and, just like any other opponent he had ever faced, it had no choice but to relent.

There was no pomp in the ceremony – a priest of simple means, judging by his attire, performed it in front of a handful of people – Madame Giry, Meg, John, Alfred, Robert and Caroline were in attendance. It struck Christine what different opinions must these people have of the proceedings under the veneer of calm interest. She could feel Madame's deep satisfaction – only now it was clear how much she had wanted to see this day. Meg seemed a little confused at first, but Christine's confident stance seemed to calm her down. Robert and John wore identical semi-concealed grins, Alfred looked impassive, and Caroline looked highly satisfied in a I-knew-it way.

The rings they exchanged were simple golden bands, each set with a tiny ruby. Christine surveyed hers surreptitiously. It did not jump out at the viewer the way her old wedding ring with a diamond did, but it was there, wrapped securely around her finger, for as long as she would live.

* * *

"No, no, not that – anything but that ridiculous thing again! Or at least a little shorter here – what are you laughing at? Did you not see me almost trip yesterday? Wouldn't that look a little unflattering?" Christine demonstrated the problem by making the step she attempted yesterday and, predictably, lost her balance. "This lace does nothing but guarantee that I twist or break something."

"That's settled then – take it off. I never liked it much in the first place, but Matti insisted… and I hadn't the energy to argue just then." Erik nodded thoughtfully. "It does make it look a trifle too frilly. Yes, you can unpin it."

Christine proceeded to do just that, and the piece of the black lace fell to the floor. She picked it up and folded it.

"Now, this will make things much easier," she sighed. "Ah, yes," she added, practicing a few pirouettes. "I'm so glad Madame did not see that one – I think I'm getting old!" she laughed after a rather fumbled attempt.

"Out of practice, that is all," Erik shrugged. "It was just an idea, at any rate."

"Oh no, you don't," she smiled. "I will do it, just give me some time to practice. I'm determined I will do it just as we envisioned… good thing I have plenty of time. Well, I better talk to Matti then – she won't be happy, but I simply cannot do it like that." Erik nodded, watching her leave the stage.

For five years, he had been a married man. He had almost become used to the thought – one easily gets used to good things. In his case, however, there was a difference between getting used to and taking things for granted.

Christine became the leading singer of New York practically overnight. After _Boheme_, there were others – notably _Traviata_ and _Faust_ that brought the audiences to their knees. Erik had also staged four operas of his own creation that were magnificently accepted. Now, they were working on _Carmen_. Their theater was now rivaling the Metropolitan, who had twice unsuccessfully requested Christine to perform any role of her choosing.

Five years had also seen the appearance of two daughters. Victoria and Elisabeth were the next level of what Christine laughingly termed their artistic dynasty, as Erik already had plans for their instruction. At least one of them was destined for the stage, he knew it. He remembered the cold fear that his children would be marred as he himself was. But both were perfect, flawlessly built. Even so, both had features that marked them as undeniably his. And hers.

Christine returned to the stage with Matti – the costume designer – in tow. Mathilda Krauss had worked with them for two years and was rather demanding; that was the reason she fit in so well.

"Madame Mueller has spoken to me," she said crossly, eyeing the lace folded on a stool. "It will not harm the overall design, I suppose." She picked the fabric up and looked it over critically. "I will think of a use for it." Matti turned on her heels and left.

"I always feel like a child in her presence," Christine smiled jovially. "But she really is a splendid person!"

"She has an excellent eye," Erik agreed. "I always value her input, if she does give it a trifle grudgingly… but then, so do I." He looked Christine over carefully. "Yes, this will look very well. You will be magnificent, as always, my dear."

"I do try my best," Christine smiled. "I have a very high standard I must satisfy, you know."

Unconsciously, they moved towards the wings. The day was over; the theater was almost empty. Christine reached her dressing room and changed into day clothes.

It was time to go home.


	27. Chapter 27

Epilogue

Today is the fifteenth anniversary of Mama's death.

Very few people remember her now. Such is the fate of entertainers. One is popular while one performs. And she hasn't performed for twenty years. The best remembrance she could have expected from the public these days is that she was the mother to three talented children. Four, had they known I am her daughter as well. For my own reasons, I never remind anyone of that fact. My work is sold under a pseudonym. Papa would be furious if he lived to know about it.

But he didn't. Papa's loss was the second blow my family had sustained.

Whenever I think of Papa, I think of movement. His schedule forced him to be in perpetual motion. Rehearsals, planning, performing, composing and – the most surprising one of all – being a parent. An adoring, enraptured parent, who saw each of his children in a penumbra of light. Each one was a thing of rare beauty, and our mother – the sacred center of all things, the being who held the strings to everything that gave meaning to his existence. No one could suspect him capable of loving – or liking anyone, but to us, his family, there couldn't have been a more generous, loving, faithful and supportive father.

Mama told us the story of their acquaintance and marriage. I cannot tell you how spellbound we were. The part that puzzled us most – at least, until we went out into the world by ourselves – was how anyone could be disgusted with Papa. Scared – yes, there was no one quite as terrifying as Father enraged; we've seen him that way and prayed never to cause that sort of glint in his eyes. But disgusting? Repulsive? We never thought of him that way. Most of the credit goes to Mama. If there was no one in the house but us – not even the aged Madame Giry while she lived – Papa had to take his mask off. It was an unspoken rule in her little domain. In fact, the mask went off first, before the hat and the cloak. That way, his face was a natural phenomenon to us children.

Routine was sacred to both of our parents. While the children did schoolwork, they rehearsed, and then Papa taught an entire class of his own. We would all gather in his vast study and he and Mama would preside over our practice. All at once he'd be listening to Vicky sing, pour over Pierre's blueprints and come from behind me to see the progress I made on my latest still life. And Mama would be watching Elise pirouette before the vast mirror. That mirror would always be in front of me, so I could always tell when Father came to watch me work, since I couldn't hear his footsteps.

Just imagine the famous tenor and composer and his celebrated soprano wife produce a deaf child! I was told that it was a heavy blow. But they recovered quickly. Papa, ever the inventor, devised a system of signs. As I got older, he taught me to read lips, so that by the age of ten people could simply talk in my line of vision and I'd know what they said. His success was revealed when I was sixteen. I was watching Vicky practice and something struck me as odd.

_Are you pronouncing everything correctly? _I asked her.

Only then did I see Papa's face. He looked torn between shock and jubilation.

"Very well done, Lovisa," he said. "I was about to correct her pronunciation, but you were quicker."

I saw Mama wipe a tear when Papa told her.

You mustn't think that we had no childhood. True, most of our time was rigorously filled by various studies and practices. We practically grew up at the concert hall. But we always had summers. July was always especially looked forward to. Mama returned from her annual three weeks in Paris, or else we joined her at their end, and family time began. I cannot count the times we crossed Europe in our travels. Sweden was visited regularly. Papa liked to visit Germany rather often; Mama liked the lakes of Switzerland but objected to crowds of tourists clustered around them. Italy was a natural attraction. It was a favorite amusement of us children to go to La Scala[1] and then relish Papa's scoffing.

Somehow, we traveled less around the Americas. Europe was our parents' spiritual home. We knew France better than many French. Not so much England – Papa, who judged a country by composers it produced, never liked it there. And the climate was rather taxing for him.

With the beginning of August we returned to New York. Mama and Papa would begin preparations for the upcoming season, and we would get ready for school. It was a busy, happy time, when plans were laid and perfected; a time when rehearsals began. I remember the year when Vicky sang for the first time. We were all so thrilled. Her first role was Adalgisa to Mama's Norma, even though Vicky was a soprano. I can never forget Papa's face that night.

Papa was the strangest man anyone could come across. His children sometimes suspected that there were several people trapped in his brain. He had every kind of temper one could think of, depending on who was with him. He had the greatest capacity to love – actually, it was more of adoration – and hate. He could rave about one thing with fire spilling out of his eyes, and a second later compliment Mama's choice of jewelry. He was unpredictable to the last degree and yet could exhibit unrivaled self-control. But whatever he was at the moment, one thing was always true – we all loved him madly.

I remember the last autumn before he died. I can't recall where we were on that particular day – at the villa, most likely. Papa sat on a bench under an enormous oak covered with golden leaves. Mama stood directly behind him, a hand resting on his right shoulder. They were both wearing dark colors. Vicky and I were just turning a corner, when we saw them. It was the single most memorable vision of our parents together we both had ever seen.

By then, Papa's lungs were already very weak. He had not sung in public for just over two years. Mama wished to stop as well, but he forbade it. Over my dead body, he had said. That was just what had happened.

Three months after that sunny day he was bedridden, never to rise again. His heart deteriorated quickly. Mama waited on him hand and foot, despite his protests. And we, the children, watched in mute horror – watched our colossus crumble. It took three weeks for him to find rest. Mama did not seem to leave him for a moment. She would often sit beside him on the bed, an arm around his shoulders to prop him up in a comfortable sitting position to ease his respiration. She would read to him and sing to him and feed him in the last three days, when he was incapable of lifting a spoon. She would not allow anyone else to do it, and we all knew he would accept such ministrations from no other. Papa's pride was the stuff of family lore.

My mind naturally wanders back to when our family was complete. We would spend weekends at the villa; Mama would tend her rose garden – she had the most glorious crimson roses anyone could find, and Papa would compose – because that was how his soul lived. And we delighted in watching them love each other – and us.

I have alluded to the villa. It was our favorite place in America – except Papa's concert hall perhaps. It was his gift to Mama for their first wedding anniversary – an escape from the bustling New York City, a slice of ancient European splendor that they both adored. The house itself, in Italian style, is precisely in the middle of an enormous plot of land and surrounded by an artificially planted forest to ensure complete privacy. Papa wasn't exactly the entertaining sort.

We would go there for the odd weekend, whenever circumstances permitted. A woman from a nearby town would come in to dust and clean on Thursdays, so there was never anyone but family when we were there. Mama was an excellent cook, so we required nothing else. Once Father died, she barely left the house. I almost always kept her company.

Then there were the "three dreaded weeks" as we children called them, the time Mama devoted to the Other Son (another of our childish appellations). Every year until about four years before she died, Mama spent three weeks in Paris, and invariably in June. She would see the child of her first marriage. We met him several times – a rather pleasant man I always considered him to be. No, our rather obvious dislike came, I fear, from Papa's influence. He generally contrived for Mama to go alone; we would usually join her in Paris at the very end of her stay. I will never forget the look in his eyes every year as he watched her ship sail away – as though he may never see her again. Until he did, he became even more irritable than usual. We knew to keep him as much with us as possible – he wouldn't lash out at us for every little thing at least.

As we grew up, we took our places on the arts scene. Vicky was essentially Mama's replacement in singing; Elise was a dancer, and Pierre – Peter, but we spoke in French amongst ourselves – was a celebrated architect. I painted with some success, but I lacked my siblings' ambition and I am the most reserved out of all. But I am always thrilled to read of their successes and then discuss it with them over Saturday tea, which we always take together. Just the four of us – the spouses and children come a little later for dinner on occasion. It is the teatime that is sacred to us four; six, really, for the ghosts of our parents seem to forever hover around us, listening with absorbed interest to all we had to say.

Listening was their forte while they lived. Papa especially had the gift of looking at you as though there was nothing more important on the planet than what you had to say.

Papa and I were always especially close. I think it was because I was like him – flawed. His efforts were always directed at helping me find my place – he was thrilled, I'm told, when I began to display my affinity for painting. We spent hours together –it was pure magic.

Mama and I got along splendidly as well. She had chosen to name me after the mother she had never known – Lovisa, the Swedish girl who fell in love with a violinist. She was an extraordinary woman, my mother. A truer equal for my father could not exist.

Christine Mueller could change the atmosphere of a room. She walked in, and heads turned to see her – always elegant, always imposing. When I was about sixteen, I witnessed a conversation about my parents, and a man referred to her as Mr. Mueller's consort. I giggled to myself at first, but almost instantly saw the truth of the term. In his theater, Papa did rule a kingdom, and his wife was the indisputable queen. In public, she often faded into the background a little – with the intention of making her husband as prominent as she could. In private, she was constantly behind his back as he worked – at his insistence – suggesting, pointing out, advising. Papa used to say she and the children inspired him like nothing else could. Together, they created programs for the season ahead, costumes, sets, props – Papa oversaw it all down to the shoelaces the actors could use.

So passed our days. So passed the twenty-three years of marriage my parents had together. We were all young when Papa died. We still needed him. Or, rather, we always needed him. I suppose we ought to be grateful for what we had. How many humans can boast of such parentage?

Mama lingered for five years after his death. She would play the piano on occasion, but never again did she sing. Her voice, she said, died with its creator. She lived at the villa, and I was with her almost constantly.

When she died, it wasn't of anything in particular. It was a gentle end – she died in her sleep. None of us were shocked. We were grateful for the time we were blessed with her presence.

I have several nieces and nephews. Papa did not live to see any; Mama was around for the eldest one. None of my siblings had the heart to name anybody for our parents. We simply couldn't bear it. But their eyes, mouths, and Mama's nose are very much in evidence. And little Sophie has quite a voice.

They will always live on.

[1] Teatro alla Scala – the single most prestigious opera house situated in Milan, Italy.


End file.
